Choux Pastry Heart
by Khwaish
Summary: Have you ever thought about what protects our hearts? House's life and the lives around him change when the addition of a vibrant young woman to PPTH sets them on a never-ending emotional rollercoaster. House/Cameron, other pairings divulged eventually.
1. Aftertaste

A/N: I seem to be including a lot of these. Anyway, to Redneck 626 and wordweaver93... thank you for the ego boost and the motivation to get off my ass and update. I ask what few readers I have to a) please review, and b) I see a lot of people mentioning the FOX forums... who/what/where/when/why/how? (mostly where and how) and c) what if anything are you listening to right now? (See that? That's subtle, masterful manipulation in order to get you to review. It's all part of my dastardly plan.. mwahahaha)

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When Gregory House, M.D. sauntered, as best he could, into Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital at exactly 9:52 a.m., on a particularly rainy April morning, he had no idea that this day will be remembered as the day that changed his life.

It started out ordinarily enough. As soon as he stepped in, he was accosted and shepherded into the clinic by Cuddy. She seemed to be smirking extra-widely, as if his early entrance had suddenly put her in a good mood. God, he could see the fangs. And before his first cup of coffee! He promptly fixed the situation by sneaking out five minutes later. She'd come hound him after lunch anyway.

He walked into his glass domain, dropped his backpack onto his desk, and made his way to the coffee maker. He poured himself a cup and sipped. Ah... a contented sigh came out before he could stop it. Cameron had stopped by.

"Good coffee?" Came the question from the now-blond head of the ER standing in the doorway. A tired looking Allison Cameron plunked into her usual chair and let her hair out.

"Miss me, Cameron?" Came the usual reply. It was routine, this part of the conversation. The bantering.

Cameron didn't need House to acknowledge the coffee and thank her; the look on his face when he swallowed was all she needed. This was routine, too. He would thank her, in his own way. Entertain her, keep her mind off of the ruptured carotid of an assault victim, the self-staplers, and the tens of homeless dying of pneumonia she had spent all night on.

She would spar with him, give him a chance to flex his verbal muscles and momentarily shed the facade of Dr. House, big bad diagnostician.. and be House.

Both of them had changed.. and not. But she considered them close in a way that none of his other fellows, or Cuddy were with him. Maybe Wilson. They shared a rich four years in each other's company. She as his subordinate, he as hers, (for a day) and just... as people.

They knew things about each other... Just as House was familiar with the existence of Allison, Cameron knew Greg was buried somewhere deep. That's why she showed up that first time, she supposed. She wanted proof that Allison still existed inside of all that Cameron, and she could only think of one person who saw her, even if it was briefly. She wanted that warm hand to firmly grip her shoulder again, metaphorically. Cameron needed to see House. To figure out what the hell happened. How she ended up with hooker hair and dark circles, became intimately familiar with fatigue, and how her life stopped showing a resemblance to... a life.

After the whole debacle with Chase she... needed something. Someone. _A friend?_ It had been almost two weeks, and she had been in a funk. She snorted inwardly. It was sad enough that she was still deeply in love with him, but it was positively pathetic if she found herself longing for her daily dose of patended House-sarcasm.

"How many times are we gonna have this conversation?" She asked, bemused. He smirked. Allison Cameron, delivery of semi-hard backbone, confirmed. She had changed so much, he mused. She even started putting her feet up. Yet she was fundamentally the same. The feet always were on another chair. Ever since she came back (not blonde and taken) but really _back,_ she and House... were... interacting? If that's how he wanted to see it. God, heaven forbid that the f-word ever be applied to them. He'd die of hyperglycemia. Or not, came another musing. He would have, in the old days. Now, she just left a not entirely unpleasant aftertaste. Metaphorically speaking, of course.  
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He remembered the first... "visit".

She remembered the first time she came to the conference room... jonesing for a House fix.

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It was empty. Of course. It was before 10:00 AM, why the hell would House be here? She and his new fellows passed by each other near the elevators... _they probably forgot Cuddy gave them the day off, and realized just now..._

She smirked inwardly. She remembered those days. She remembered the pleasant exhaustion that seeped in after solving a case... seeing a patient walk out of the hospital. She remembered going out to celebrate on their rare days off from Cuddy.

They were also bored a lot... another smirk. She did paperwork, or sorted mail, or loaned herself out wherever while Foreman would read every piece of medical news he could get his hands on and Chase did his crossword.

She sighed.

_Chase..._

That was part of the reason she was on autopilot... taking the elevator to the fourth floor before realizing it. Out of habit and nostalgia, she walked over to the coffee maker, dumped out the pot and made a fresh one. She saw Wilson walk by and give her a surprised wave. She smiled back and walked out on to the hallway.

"What are you doing there?" Wilson asked.

"You wouldn't believe it if I told you," she answered. Wilson was a nice guy, she liked him a lot. Years of snitching to him and asking him to run interference turned into a nice friendship.  
Wilson grinned.

"Try me."

She smiled and shook her head. Might as well, she thought, as she entered his office with him following behind.

"Please", he said, extending a hand towards his couch. "Sit." She flopped down on the couch with a contented sigh. Smiling, he amended, "Or flop, as the case may be."

"So..." he took his place behind his desk. "This is about House, isn't it"

Cameron snorted delicately.

"My my my, Dr. Wilson, you don't waste any time, do you?" She said, consciously choosing those words. It soon became apparant that Wilson wasn't unaware of the double meaning. Laughing, he lowered his voice, and wiggled his eyebrows.

"That's what they all say, Dr. Cameron."

Cameron giggled, and shifted to tuck her feet underneath her. When Wilson couldn't take it anymore, he cracked.

"Seriously... what's wrong?"

"You must have heard already."  
She sighed, rolling her eyes. She couldn't bring herself to show anything else... not to Wilson; unconsiously or otherwise.

Wilson grimaced in sympathy. The hospital rumor mill was occasionally amusing at best, and harsh and unforgiving at worst. Yeah, he had heard. Who hadn't? The "Chameron" break-up was as big news as the hook-up. That was all the entire nursing staff were talking about. Drs. Chase and Cameron broke up in the locker room near the ER last Saturday. There were multiple accounts, each getting more and more absurd.

"Yeah," he said, at a loss. _Was she looking for comfort, is that why she's here? Is that why she came to_ House_?_

"So you visited the fourth floor because...", he chanced.

Cameron stiffened. She knew this was coming, damnit... she had come here seeking _something_. Took the elevator to the diagnostics wing as soon as her first official day off in what seemed like _forever_ began. Made coffee, for God's sake. Suddenly, her peripheral vision caught House coming in to his office, not even sparing a glance in her direction. She visibly deflated. Wilson caught it, of course. Whatever she had come to ask or tell, it concerned House, not him. It didn't surprise him that she was tight-lipped around him, though. Cameron was a nice woman, and almost four years of joint interference had made them sort-of friends. He liked her, but he wasn't under the illusion that he was confidant-material where she was concerned. So, in usual Wilson style, he cleared his throat. Instead of politely changing the subject, or taking a pretend call, he decided to do what friends do. (Or sort-of friends, as the case may be.)

"Cameron." Her head snapped up, and she smiled sheepishly.

"Go on," he said, waving her on magnanimously.  
She smiled and, to his surprise, came around to peck him on the cheek.

"Thanks, Wilson," she said, backing out. Wilson smiled at the swinging door and sighed inwardly. He would never understand their relationship... existent or otherwise. House and Cameron always had this underlying unresolved sexual tension... more so than Thirteen. Even Cuddy. Snort. That was something he should stop thinking about... he had work to do.

hchchc

She passed by the glass doors just as House limped into the conference room and made a beeline for the coffee maker. By the time she came into the doorway, he was reaching for his red mug.

hchchc

Bracing himself for the sludge Foreman called coffee, he took out his mug from the cabinet and started rooting around for the sugar. He was jonesing for a caffeine fix.. so much so that he had accepted drinking the sauce-like brew as his fate. He needed a jolt... days, weeks, months, _years_ of insomnia left him....tired. So goddamn exhausted. All the fucking time. The time it took for the scotch-chased Vicodin to numb him, and the time he had to spend finding a comfortable position, combined with the 5 hour time-limit his leg came with, meant that he got only an average of three or four hours of sleep.

That's why... more than a caffeine fix, he needed a good case, House realized. He needed a good puzzle to distract him. To help shove the pain, the fatigue, and the weariness he now constantly seemed to carry around further into the recesses of his mind. Finally, he found the damn sugar. Emptying a few packets into his mug, he filled up. Thinner, he thought, and took a sip.

He almost choked in surprise, and a moment later, he figured out why. Mocha walnut. An old favorite. Cameron knew that. Grabbing a napkin, he wiped his mouth. He happened to look up at a smirking Cameron hovering at the door. He motioned her in, and topped off his coffee.

"Miss me, Cameron? Want the job back?" He asked.  
She snorted. Mm-hm. "You wish."

"Just checking. So... what's with the coffee? Consult? Particularly good case you've dragged in? Also..." He trailed off, and looked around him. "... where the hell is everyone?"

"At home," came the stunned reply.

"Seriously?"

"Were you there when Cuddy gave the department today off?"

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. Were you not paying attention"

"When do I ever pay attention when the devil incarnate stalks into my office?"

"True.."

"Damn!"

"I'd say."

"No, I'm _not _on the clinic roster today.."

"Wow... actually, not. Cuddy probably did that on purpose."

"So... what are _you_ doing here?"

"I just got off."

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	2. 007

"Okay..."

Cameron fidgeted. That was one of the more tactful things he could say, she supposed. She jumped when she heard his voice again.

"And... did you need something?"

"Uh.."

It dawned on him. House suddenly realized why his ex-fellow was sitting in what used to be her usual chair after making him coffee. Damn it. What the hell did she expect? Tea and sympathy? All she would get was goading and gloating.

He pretended that an unexplainable feeling briefly made itself known when he had heard the news. Wilson tried, for two days straight, to psychoanalyze him, to provoke a response, anything. No success. House prided himself on surviving that... Wilson didn't call him Fort Knox for nothing. Her voice brought him out of his reverie.

"I heard about the methadone."

Crap. This was why he didn't go after her that second time. She keeps bringing up... things... why must she corner him like that? Yank what little control he has from him? Does she enjoy it? Does she really want to hear his lashing? Hasn't she learned by now? God, she must either be very stupid or very brave, to constantly... urgh. He went with stupid. It felt like yesterday, his temporarily new lease on life. It felt like just yesterday he was sleeping well, (albeit under the watchful eye of Sandra) and living without the thing that made him the way he was. He was devastated. He wouldn't admit to anybody, but he was. But, he intellectually realized that he needed all and anything under his control to firmly stay that way, which is why he rejected the methadone. His mind was all he had, and under it... he couldn't even treat fucking dehydration.

hchchchc

She must have caught the shadow pass his face, followed by what looked like frustration. And anger. Cameron flinched inwardly. Word vomit... why must she bring up the goddamn methadone? It was just another one of the many disappointments he experienced, and try as she might to stop it, her heart broke for him.

"I just refused the one thing that could take my pain away. Sound familiar? Learn anything new?"

He stared at his shoes, not wanting to see the startled look on her face. He didn't expect a reply.

"Yeah. You shouldn't shave."

His head snapped up and his eyes widened. Before he could say anything else, she continued.

"The tie was nice, though."

Her breath caught in her throat as a slow smile curled into his mouth. His eyes were twinkling. The number of times she saw a genuine smile grace her ex-boss' face were still countable on one hand. Thank God she was sitting down... after five years and a lifetime's worth of drama, to think he still had that kind of effect on her... For the umpteenth time, she began to think that maybe, she and Chase were never meant to be. The engagement was rushed, the whole relationship built on precarious foundations of benefits and Tuesdays. She had wanted to get over House, to get out of the rut she seemed to be eternally in. Quite a big part of her felt guilty. It was an ingrained response... he had genuinely liked her, loved her. But now, as she felt herself smiling back at House, for the first time, it dawned on her that maybe, she was not in a rut. Maybe, this was her getting out of it.

hchchchc

He said the only thing that came to mind.

"Thanks."

"Anytime," was the airy reply.

"Special plans on your first day off in..."

"Two weeks," she exhaled.

"Diagnosticians don't have to wait that long." She rolled her eyes at him, earning her a smirk in response.

"Shut up already."

"Back to my question."

"Sleep... I'll decide what to do tommorow." He raised his eyebrows in surprise. Two days in row... must have been an awful two weeks. She probably insisted on finishing all the paperwork too.

"House."

"What?"

"I asked you a question." One eyebrow this time; reminding her that no, that was not smooth, but issuing a silent invitation to ask anyway.

"What are you doing? Tommorow's Sunday, so..."

"The usual." It was what he did no matter what time of day it was... soaps, pizza, booze and Vicodin. It wasn't always pizza... sometimes it wasn't anything.

"Getting shitfaced." He wasn't fazed this time. This was perhaps rarer than the smile, she thought. The corners of his eyes crinkled, revealing amused eyes, exposing unusually deep laugh lines... pain lines. Her heart clenched again before she could stop it. Damn methadone. He cocked his head to side, as if issuing a challenge.

"Your point being?"

"Maybe I want to get shitfaced too." He was slightly fazed this time, but found himself considering the possibilities.

"I'll be watching.." She cut him off.

"Soaps. I know... what do you say? I'll even bring Indian."

"I hate Indian." She scoffed at him.

"Uh-huh."

"No, really. I tried every restaurant within ordering distance, and they're all crap."

"There are great ones outside ordering distance..."

"I mean the fricking tri-state area. Edison did nothing for me."

"The one in West Windsor is pretty good...the one by McCaffrey's?"

"My father was stationed in India for two years, and trust me, nothing compares to the real stuff."

"Thai, then."

"Eh.."

"House!"

"Someplace I haven't visited. Italian."

"Deal." She nodded once, apparently satisfied with the conclusion of the verbal tennis match they just played.

"My place... hour and a half."  
Cameron half-smiled at him while getting out of her chair.

"See you then," was all the reply he got.

hchchc

As he mounted his bicycle and rode back to his place, House wondered what the hell he had gotten himself into. He had heard, of course, of the Chameron break-up, as well as the fact that he was part of the cause. He didn't know how he felt about that... throughout her fellowship, he was determined to keep this particular piece of lobby art at arms length. She was too young, too innocent, too fragile, too... everything. Chase was perfect for her... a symbiotic relationship, as it were. His insides twinged strangely at the thought of her and Chase. Of them... he mentally shuddered. House's keys pinged in the oddly shaped red dish sitting just inside his door as he tossed them in and shrugged off his jacket. It was better than being her charity case, he mused. Tossing his coat at the general direction of the closet, he hobbled towards his kitchen to pour himself a glass of water and lowered himself onto the couch, elevating the bad leg. It seemed like he was sitting there for just minutes when Cameron's knock sounded on the door.

"It's open," he called out.

She came in bearing bags and bags of food, and after glaring at him for refusing to help, made her way to the island in the kitchen and dumped all the bags on the countertop. Cameron had ordered extra of everything, just to stock his fridge with leftovers. She was glad she did, looking at his appallingly empty fridge. Well, she thought, at least he had wine. Even though she had seemingly agreed to watch soaps with him, she grabbed a plastic bag from the counter, and went into the living room. She tossed it at him, not bothering to see if he caught it, much to his amusement. Going back into the kitchen, she located plates and cutlery, and made a plate of antipasto. Digging out the aforementioned dusty bottle of wine from the recesses of his cabinets, she grabbed two glasses and carried everything to the couch. Setting them on the coffee table, she paused to kick off her shoes and settle into the armchair across from the couch. He stared at her.  
She stared back.  
He broke the silence first.

"I see you brought entertainment."

She smiled. She had an inkling her ex-boss would not mock her choice of entertainment for the night. Much.

"Did you even look at it?"

She picked up the plastic bag and shoved it at him. At that point, he did look at it.

hchchchchchchc

Not even he could have predicted this... a Hugh Grant marathon, maybe, but the thought of Cameron and James Bond seemed... wierd. And they were all Sean Connery, who was, in his very humble opinion, the best James Bond that ever existed. A flicker of surprise crossed his face and a ghost of a smile danced across his mouth. It looked like a boxed set, with every Bond movie his favorite Bond had ever starred in. Every movie that he had snuck out to see as soon as he was old enough... every movie that had made the rounds years too late in dilapidated movie theaters with naive proprietors. The smile widened, as he lifted the box out of the plastic bag. Everything from _Dr. No_ to _Diamonds Are Forever_... with director's cuts, deleted scenes, featurettes... Before he could think, he turned towards Cameron with the smile still in place, eyes twinkling, his mouth curled in a way that somehow seemed to make him look like a different person... like..

Her breath caught in her throat.

_Like Greg_, her mind conviniently supplied. Before she could silently wax lyrical about his momentarily open features, his expression was wiped carefully blank.

"It'll do."

All breath was released posthaste, and she smirked. She set down the glass of wine she had yet to sip from and raised an eyebrow at him.

"I'm ecstatic."

She put in the first movie in, having decided to watch it in chronological order, so she started _Dr. No_ first. Something changed when he was watching them, and Cameron thought nostalgically about her non-date with him.. the closest she had gotten to _Greg_, instead of the prickly facade of Dr. House. He rambled, incessantly, recounting how watching these movies over and over in Japan perfected his Japanese, and when they were bootlegged, Greek. It was as if he had completely forgotten her presence, or by an unexpected miracle, was talking despite it.

She thought back to that night which was forever capitalized in her mind. Monster Trucks. That Night.

Yeah.. House could be cute when he wanted to.. and he was a shameless 007 geek. She was enjoying herself, looking at him softly gesticulating about whatever... she couldn't concentrate on what at the moment. It wasn't until a bad joke and the end of the movie that she was shaken from a reverie.

"You do come close, you know," he began.

"To what? James Bond?" she raised her eyebrow at him.

"You did for a short time..." he trailed off, as if for dramatic effect. She raised her eyebrow and waited. Patiently. He stared back at her until her patience ran out and she snapped.

"What?"

"Have license to drill." His smirk was full blast, threatening to crack her own carefully maintained veneer of indifference. What the hell. She started chuckling, throwing an olive across the coffee table, only to be deftly caught and consumed in the blink of an eye.

"Shut up," she managed to get out, while simultaneously trying not to inhale her wine. Still smiling, she shook the next DVD at him before popping it in.

hchchchchchc

By the time the credits for _Diamonds are Forever_ rolled, Cameron was half-slumped on the couch, a multitude of containers littering the coffee table. She was hunched over, her back to the side by the door, her feet propped on House's good thigh. House, on the other hand, had his head back, bad leg elevated, and was snoring delicately with is mouth partially open. The unfortunate beep of her pager snapped both of them out of their slumber, and Cameron leaped from the couch, much to House's bleary amusement. She scrambled until she could find the source of the offending noise was located and silenced.

"I have go back in, Barton had an accident," she said, reffering to one of her fellow ER attendings. Despite his best efforts, House couldn't help but miss the warm pressure on his thigh and feel just a bit disappointed.

"Go. Ride in and suture." His tone came out clipped.

"Rawr." Cameron made her hands into claws and motioned them forward. House's shoulders, which had stiffened unexpectedly, relaxed somewhat as the corners of his eyes crinkled at her.

"Who told you about that?" He asked, expecting a reply he didn't like.

"Wilson. And Dr. Hadley," she said, as she moved to clear the plates and put the food away.

"13, huh? Hot threesome in the works?" He couldn't resist snarking.

She came back out to face him.

"Thought I'd crossover for a bit, considering my newly single status, and Foreman's getting more appealing by the day," she said airily. House raised an eyebrow and smirked. She went into the kitchen to finish tidying up and came out to grab her coat.

"Good God, woman, what the hell did I do to you?" Was his playful retort.

She came up beside him and laid a hand on his arm and squeezed.

"You didn't do anything," she said, words no louder than a whisper. She squeezed again in farewell, a silent I-had-a-good-time accompanied by a half-smile.

"I grew up."

She smiled again before leaving, and that smile held so many things, so many emotions flitted across her face that he would analyze ad nauseum throughout the night...but for then he nodded in reply and watched the door open and close.

Allison Cameron. God, had she changed. She did, he surmised, she did grow up. But Allison was still in there. The way she smiled that last time, the way she squeezed his hand, the way she tidied up, there were still traces of the old Cameron in there. But she was a little bit more jaded, a little bit more skeptical, and a little bit more... grown up, and pride and guilt fought for dominance among the myriad of thoughts running through his head.

hchchchc

That wasn't their last meeting. After the James Bond marathon, there were day-long quests to find "decent" Baklava, English comedy nights, motorcycle shows, and Die Hard marathons. She kept visiting his office and making coffee, much to his delight, and he kept barreling through the ER to personally ask for consults.

They were... becoming friends. Huh.

House was lounging on his couch on a lazy Sunday afternoon when nature called and demanded that he move. Grabbing his cane, he heaved himself up, idly thinking that he shouldn't have tossed the brown one in the dumpster. He froze, frown rapidly deepening. Heaving a sigh he instantly berated himself for, he looked up at the ceiling in frustration. Food could come later. He needed a distraction. So he limped to his piano and started playing.  
After running through his memorized repetoire, he stood up and opened the piano bench for music, only to come face to face with chaos. Perfect, he thought. He'd been wanting to organize those anyway.

Evening found him going through piles of his sheet music, sorting them out according to genre and composer and sliding them into plastic covers when a visiting card fell from between the paper onto his lap. Dr. Catherine Montgomery, the card read. Small, neat, bright red lettering covered the back.

_House, _

_Whatever, wherever, whenever, however. It's the least I can do, and besides, I don't think you can tolerate any others.  
_

_Cheers,  
Monty_

So much for a distraction... so much for pretending he hadn't been thinking about the goddamn methadone the whole goddamn time.

His conversation with Chase in the locker room was on the forefront of his mind when he picked up the phone and dialed the number of an old, old friend. If they could be called that, he thought. If anybody could be called that in reference to him.

hchchchc

She was heading back from the vending machine closest to the ER for fuel when House limped past, holding on to a gurney.

Her jaw dropped and the package of crackers she was holding fell to the ground. House barely spared her a glance as he was heading up to Diagnostics, and Cameron somehow found herself following.

She was on auto-pilot; she barely noticed House in a sweatshirt, or the lacerations on his arm and abrasions on his face. As she came up the stairs, she noticed Cuddy smoothing House's hair back and following him.

A wave of bile rose up in her throat. Not that House's reply to her overtures was anything other than normal, but Cameron was slowly turning green at the sight of her hands on his face. She never felt anything other than the urge to roll her eyes at the three ring circus that was House and Cuddy, but....

Before she could finish her thought, House had rounded the corner and disappeared into the hallway. Cameron steeled herself.

Put yourself together, woman. You have an ER that needs you, the voice inside her head said. She hit the button for the elevator and a floor later, ran into Wilson.

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A/N: And we go back to the previous chapter, top section... before the flashback. Thanks to the "ones" of readers :D, shoutout to ChaosandMayhem and her awesome profile. The name of the shrink is me metaphorically raising my glass to the ever-fabulous iyimgrace. "Locked In" was great.. especially the office-call Cameron made. Still digesting "A Simple Explanation"...


	3. Won't Get Fooled Again

A/N: I thought i'd try something new and write from a new pov, just to tone the writing muscle and commemorate (is that the word?) last Monday night's episode. Tell me if i'm too biased, or whatever, if the flaming can be kept to a minimum.

Edit: I hate Notepad for making the initial draft look like e.e. cummings' ghost was possessing me. (My apologies :D)

Warning: **MAJOR SPOILERS**. if you haven't seen "Simple Explanation", do not read further. There. That's today's good deed. On that note, special prize for the person who figures out where the title of the chapter came from and its relevance to the episode.

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April 2nd, 2009

5:55 am

Getting out of bed, you muse, had gotten harder. Looking in the mirror was harder. Going through the motions was all you had energy for these days.

Routine.  
You collected your paper, drank your coffee, showered, dressed, kissed the wife, went to work. Tried not to throw up in the process. the now-looming facade of the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital was enough to make you turn green these days.  
0000000000000000000000000000000

7:40 am

You knew.  
You knew you looked ridiculous, taking deep yoga breaths in the middle of the stupid parking lot. It's the only thing you remember from the one session you were coerced into going to, and at this point, you'll do whatever works. Tears would be shining in your eyes if you were a crying kind of guy. but you aren't. The perpetually sour expression on your face would settle in for the day, and you would go in and do your job.

0000000000000000000000000000000

8:05 am

Cold.  
Things fazed you, but they never broke your stride. you didn't give up. Granted, you don't have the single-minded focus that House does, the compassion that Wilson does, the strength that Cuddy does... the drive that Cameron does, the resilience that Chase does, the confidence that Foreman does, or work as hard as Thirteen, or have Kutner's passion.

But you come in. You show the hell up, and do your damn job. You scoff (sometimes at Kutner, or patients, but mostly at House,) you contribute to the differential diagnosis, you run the tests, you cure the guy, and you go home. You mocked foreman just to get a rise out of Thirteen, calling him a robot, while the voice inside your head was niggling at you, saying that you're the actual robot.

Heartless.  
You were the one that shows the least emotion, the least commitment, the most desire to get the fuck out. To just _stop_. To just end the nausea that _life_ seems to induce, that doing the job seems to induce, that looking at your wife and your BMW and your significantly less paycheck seems to induce. (looking at House, watching Kutner bite into a doughnut from the basket seems to induce.) But you don't. You keep telling yourself that you're saving lives, becoming a better man, a better doctor, doing something meaningful.  
You pretend the new found, convoluted side of medicine is helping you move away from the superficial.  
You ignore the fact that the superficial is what drove you to Plastics. You forget that you were proud of the fact that you could make people feel better about themselves, because, once upon a time, you thought that being healthy isn't worth anything if you don't feel good.

00000000000000000000000000000000

9:40 am

Hypocrite.  
You know. You know that every time you lecture a clinic patient, every time you take a history, every time you patronize while hooking up an iv, that you've turned into somebody you hated once. Stoic.

Self-righteous.

Condescending.

It should kill you that the ghost of the honorable Mayor Isaac Taub seems like it's currently possessing you, but it doesn't.

000000000000000000000000000000000

10:17 am

Numb.  
You sit down at the glass conference table and chart, for lack of a better option, answer Kutner's phone call, drawl at him about an interesting case and tell him to show up no later than noon. You stay there while Foreman goes for a consult and Thirteen takes a history. You toss the case file at House when he comes in.  
The day has officially started.

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12:45 pm

Thirteen and foreman have gone to Kutner's house to find out where he is. You run tests and check on the patient, and plan to run tests and check on other patients behind House's back, only to be found out. You steel yourself and take the taunting house seems to deal out, despite last time's computer idea, and you accept the fact that House knows you lied about the rat pee. At least you care enough about the job to lie, you think. You cared enough about the marriage, which might not apply to the same concept, but you think it nonetheless.

t 000000000000000000000000000000000

2:17 pm

You are stunned at the news. You think, just for a moment, that Kutner was a day late in pranking everybody, but Kutner, being Kutner, probably took a day to gather courage. Just for a moment. More numb than usual, if it was possible. But you were. You walked the halls of PPTH like the zombie everybody thought you were.

000000000000000000000000000000000

April 4th, 2009

3:57 AM

Time doesn't hold any significance for you anymore. You browbeat your patient out of effectively killing himself, and you berate Cuddy, and you bring Eddie into his wife's room to hold her hand as she dies. You don't go home for two days, hovering over the patient and being obsessive about charting.

6:09 AM

Aftert the umpteenth time you look back at this minute, you deem the experience liberating. Like a dam bursting and soaking the yearning land. Finally. Finally, something snaps inside you and the floodgates open. Everything you have bottled up inside has finally broken the walls.

You sit on the bench outside the ICU, and finally, the tears come.

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A/N: I'm really not that happy with this one, and my apologies for the ending. Next one will be better, I promise.

Read and Review, as always.


	4. Go Mad

A/N: Credit to Shonda Rimes for portions of the previous chapters, which were inspired by Owen talking to Derek in "Stand By Me". Yes, I'm a Grey's fan. Get over it :D Speaking of the previous chapter, special prize goes to iyimgrace for guessing the relevance of the title correctly. (That plot bunny I gave you was the prize :D)

I don't own the song, but I recommend listening to it, especially towards the later sections. "Go Mad" by Caleb Kane. Look it up, it's a fantastic song.

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She is a lot of things, but she is most definitely not a morning person. She needs a reason to get up in the morning-- an assignment, or a page, or usually something that she put off doing until that day. If that was the case, her eyes would snap open at exactly 6:00 AM, a curse on her lips, the stop button on the iHome would be properly found and pushed, and she would propel herself out of bed and in the bathroom.

That was the case that Monday morning. That April morning brought with it good weather along with good luck, it seemed. She really needed it. Today was a big day.

_A make it or break it day._

She shook herself.

_You can't think like this_, she told herself. _Come on, woman. Keep it together._

The niggling thought hadn't left the back of her head as she came face to face with her reflection in the bathroom mirror, and attempted to undo her hair. Her iHome was blasting Jet as she completed her morning ablutions, and she moved to her closet to pick something out.

Standing in front of her closet, she debated the merits of various outfits before picking, a bright red, reasonably cut sweater, a wide black belt and light gray trousers. Maybe it had a lot to do with her self-image, or being twenty four, but she didn't have it in her to wear pencil skirts. Or skirts, for that matter. _Those were for the stacked, model-types,_ she thought to herself. _With asses to speak of. _

The wry smile stayed in place as she blew out her hair, and preened briefly, happy with her straight, shoulder length, coal black hair. She made it back to her closet and with a long suffering sigh, took out a package and ripped it open.

She slipped the gel cushions out of the package and into her pumps, silently promising her aching feet they would not have to suffer after today. Grabbing the burgundy colored tote that was jokingly referred to as the "briefcase", she gave herself a once over in the foyer mirror and stepped out the door.

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Lisa Cuddy kissed her daughter's soft cheek before uttering her daily apology. _One of these days,_ she thought, as she pulled on her shoes, _I'll see a dentist._ _See what kind of damage the big-time, stress-induced teeth gritting is doing. _

"I'm sorry, baby," was barely audible as she once again gritted her teeth, and walked out of her house, not turning her back once despite her daughter's cries. _Oh, Rachel_, she thought, _someday, hopefully, you'll realize why Mommy has to leave you alone everyday. If that son-of-a-bitch is alive then, I'll even have someone to point out,_ was almost muttered under her breath before Cuddy's hyper-developed Jewish guilt complex conveniently supplied images to quell the thought.

Lisa Cuddy hated Monday mornings with a burning passion that was hitherto non-existent. After spending glorious Sundays with Rachel, taking her grocery shopping, walking, playing, she hated Mondays-- especially because she had to go back to the hell-hole her office had now become.

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At exactly 7:30 AM, Cuddy strode through the lobby, only stopping to inspect the front desk and get her daily morning report from Nurse Brenda. Brenda, in one of her more talkative moods had referred to this ritual as "The State of the Union" report, and Cuddy smiled every time she thought about it. It was, she mused. This was her domain, she ruled here, and Brenda's daily walking monologue was like a trusted minister reporting to her monarch. She smirked, thoughts running away with her as Brenda's voice continued in the background.

"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?" Brenda asked.

Because she had known her for fifteen years, back when she was just another doctor and they were friends, in a way, a laugh bubbled around a single word.

"Nope."

Brenda snorted, shoving a pile of papers at her unceremoniously.

"It's in writing anyway." And, because it was Brenda, she simply smirked, accepting the papers, and walked into her office.

"Michael!" She barked at her new assistant. The young man snapped to attention, sitting impossibly straight in his chair. He dutifully handed over her messages, and she wondered, which was also part of the daily routine, why donors insisted on calling when they knew she wouldn't be working.

She spent the next half hour returning those phone calls and making some more, forcing a smile into her voice as she multitasked.

At exactly 9:45 AM, she began what was fondly labeled "Housewatch" by the nurses. She walked through the clinic, making sure everything was in order, screamed at Maintenance which was fast becoming a bi-weekly ritual, barked at her assistant, and paced to and from the lobby for the next half-hour.

At exactly 10:17 AM, Dr. Gregory House, glorified pain in her ass, came limping through the doors, looking pale and drawn. She hesitated, just for a millisecond, before entering the lobby and accosting House at the nurse's station.

"You're late," she barked, case file at the ready to slap against his chest.

"How many times are we going to have this conversation, Cuddy?" What worried her, was not the question, it was the conspicuous absence of underlying snark. His eyes looked glassy, and her proximity to him allowed her to notice deep, bluish-purple circles adorning his face and his white-knuckled grip on his cane.

"Are you okay?" Slipped out before she could censor herself.

"Peachy." Was the clipped answer.

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A young woman had entered the lobby right behind House and went right up to the nurse's station, out of the doctors' line of sight.

"Excuse me, where I can find the Dean's office?" An Anglicized accent of no particular origin flowed out of the young woman's mouth. "I have an appointment with her in and an hour."

"Dr. Khan?" The receptionist asked.

"Yes, that's right," the young woman replied, listening to the other woman talk, thanking her for the directions to the Dean's office.

"...peachy," House had just replied, as he turned on his heel and limped to the elevators.

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As Wilson pushed open the doors of the clinic, he caught sight of his best friend and his boss, once more basting themselves in unresolved sexual tension. The striking young woman leaning against the nurse's station, however, immediately caught his eye. He found himself reverting back to his old ways, to the days before Amber, when he had sharp radar and a roaming eye. He sighed and mentally shook himself.

_Save the emotional crap for later_, Wilson, the voice inside his head said. He was surprised to note it had morphed to sound like House. He had reached Cuddy when he noticed the young woman smile at the receptionist and push off from the nurse's station, big red bag in hand.

Wilson approached Cuddy, smiling at a passing nurse as he made his way over. He stopped as Cuddy turned around and offered him a wry smile, opening her mouth to say something before she turned to see the young woman freeze, mouth parted and blanch. Cuddy's expression was one of confusion, and Wilson was almost about to give in to irrationality and smile at it before he too, turned and watched his best friend mirror the young woman's expression as the elevator doors closed.

Sairah Khan pivoted on her heel to face the woman standing next to her, still operating on the autopilot she snapped into. _No…_ was the thought running through her head, warring with the cautious hope that had quickly taken root. _It couldn't be…_ she never thought she'd see him again. Sairah had given up on ever seeing him again after crying herself to sleep those first few weeks. She had steeled herself and forced herself not to feel anything, forced herself not to mourn the absence of one of the most important men in her life.

She was aware, at least peripherally, that she had paled, but what she didn't know was that she had dropped her red briefcase, thankfully without her Mac Book, and she had turned a sickly greenish-gray.

Not caring, she opened her mouth to speak.

"You wouldn't happen to know where…" she left off, voice now too weak to say anything. The woman didn't seem to notice.

"Fourth floor, Diagnostics," she said, seeming as surprised as Sairah herself was. Snapping out of auto-pilot, she quickly spied the sign for the stairs, and picked up the briefcase she almost tripped on. Before starting, she faced the other woman, and the man standing next to her, and smiled in what she later would hope was an apologetic manner. Not that she cared at the moment.

"I beg your pardon, I didn't get your name," she said, manners apparently resurfacing.

The woman blinked at her before offering her a half smile and a manicured hand.

"Lisa Cuddy," she said, and those words suddenly penetrated the fog that was quickly taking over Sairah's mind.

"Please, thank you, and sorry, Dr. Cuddy. See you in an hour," was all she managed, and she hoped she had covered all her bases with the woman that could make or break her future. Turning around, she speed walked to the stairs before running up them.

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"What the hell was _that_?"

"Let's go find out."

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House limped to his office; not knowing what he was doing or where he was going, relying on years of routine to guide him. Cameron was in the conference room, making coffee and talking to Foreman. If they looked up as he passed, he didn't notice. He too, had turned an unhealthy shade of gray, eyes glassy and uncomprehending. He walked on to the balcony, and rested his head on his hands.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," a voice floats into the periphery of his mind. And because it was Cameron, and because she had been visiting a lot, and hanging out a lot, and becoming a sort of Wilson-like addition to his life over the weeks, his shoulders slumped.

"Something like that," he said, voice sounding hollow. Because it was. Something like that. He felt as if he was in some sort of time warp, riding a ripple in the space-time continuum or whatever the terminology was. He felt thirty years younger for a brief millisecond as he stood in the elevator, looking at her… before it registered that he _wasn't_, which meant that there was only one other person that could be.

Her shoes made an angry pounding noise on the linoleum as she half-ran, checking both sides for the name she was looking for. She stopped, facing a glass section, and found what she was looking for.

Her heart stopped, for a multitude of reasons, none of which could identify or comprehend. Unaware of other people in the room next door, or Dr. Cuddy, or the man that was next to her, she headed straight to the door before knocking. Loudly.

It had been a long, long time, but she somehow knew what tense shoulders and a tilting head meant. She entered, long dormant tear ducts filling the corner of her eyes.

He turned.

She froze.

They stared at each other for a long, long time, not sure how to break the silence. Suddenly, her face crumpled as she cracked first.

"Fourteen years." She focused on her shoes and the carpet below them, fearing the worst, and expecting… not that she knew. Her head snapped up when he cleared his throat.

"Thirteen years, nine months, three weeks, five days…" he trailed off. And because she knew what time it was, she finished his calculations.

"Fourteen hours, thirty nine minutes, five seconds."

"Show off."

"Amateur," she said, half-choking on the word as she looked down again.

"You got fat."

"You got old."

"You sound British."

"You sound bitter."

"Smartass."

"Grumpy."

Gathering her courage, she said the words that were ringing in her head for the past five minutes.

"You're just going to stand there, aren't you?"

House lifted up his cane.

"Cane."

"Oh." She looked like she had just noticed it, despite its presence since the beginning of the bizarre conversation they were having. Knowing her, she had. He loved her for it. The thought brought a smile to his lips.

She seemed to notice it as her head tilted and she half-smiled at him.

"Hospitable."

He moved to lean on his desk and plant his feet, propping his cane on the chair, stabilizing himself. The gesture was not lost on her. For him, that was like throwing his arms open and rushing forward.

"Take it or leave it."

She choked on a laugh that was cleverly disguised as a sob.

He watched as she walked, painfully slow, stopping just short.

"Come on, then," he sighed, a smile lighting up his eyes.

This time she really did laugh, gracing him with one of her trademark 100 watt smile as she threw her arms around him.

She kept laughing as she hugged him, holding on impossibly tight.

He reciprocated, smiling fully as he clutched her to his chest. _It had been almost fourteen years, _he thought, arms tightening as if making up for lost time. Nobody knew how long they stood like that, laughing and crying. He brought his hand up to the back of her head, tilting it back as she stepped back. Smoothing her hair, and wiping her tears, he grasped her hands.

"Let me look at you," he said, lifting up an arm so that she can turn under it. She laughed as she turned, not caring that her mascara had streaked her face.

"I lied," he said to her. He did. She looked fantastic, a far cry from the little girl he knew and loved all those years ago.

"Me too," she said. No explanation was needed.

Cuddy chose that moment to interrupt one of the happier moments of his life by striding through the door, distracting him. _Damn Cuddy._

"I hate to interrupt," she started, and she sounded sincere enough. "But Dr. Khan, your interview starts in five minutes."

House couldn't control his head whipping to the side to stare at Sairah. He raised an eyebrow at her, to which she shook her head, closing her eyes, trying to communicate _later_ through subtle body language. He nodded imperceptibly.

She had almost made in out of the door before she asked Dr. Cuddy to hold on for a second and turned. Sairah did not hesitate this time as she covered the length of the room in four swift strides and threw her arms around House once more. He returned the embrace, forehead on her shoulder as he lowered his arms and briefly lifted her in a pale parody of past gestures. She stepped back, smiling at him.

"Forty tops," she whispered.

"Come back for lunch?"

"Only if you're paying," she quipped, grabbing a tissue on her way out to fix her face.

Cuddy could only stare as House smiled after the young woman, face relaxed.

The others could only stare, too, before House shook himself and walked into the conference room.

"Case?" His voice wasn't as gruff as it would have been, and he actually smiled at Cameron as she handed him his coffee, still in shock.

"Okay, people, stop staring. Cameron, if you're looking for a job, sorry, but Thirteen's already replaced you. Unless you're here for a consult, in which case, keep the coffee coming. Symptoms?"

He turned to face his team, receiving only blank stares in return.

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_**Go on. Press the pretty button with the green words… you know you want to!!**_


	5. Mistery

A/N: Damn David Shore! Huddy sex is _soo_ throwing me off… Anyway, you know the drill, my reader(s?), guess where the title comes from. And about this chapter, I realize it's overdone. Oh, well. And please, take pity on me and REVIEW!

The elevator dinged for the millionth time at 9:30 AM, the doors opening to show a tall man with a cane. Said cane was being pounded on the floor of the elevator by its impatient owner as he waited for the doors to fully open.

Dr. James Wilson had just rounded the corner with one of his employees, when he saw his best friend walk out the elevator. Without breaking the conversation, he caught his eye, and inclined his head while keeping his peripheral vision on him as he dropped the young doctor walking beside him off at the elevators. In the House-Wilson brand of silent communication that had developed over the years, that meant, "let me finish talking to this guy." Wilson half-smiled at his doctor before turning to face his friend.

"Good morning," House said, before Wilson could say anything.

"Yeah, for a change, it is morning," Wilson deadpanned.

"Whatever," he disinterestedly replied as he walked to his office; fervently hoping Wilson wouldn't follow him.

And he did, much to House's chagrin. He could _hear_ Wilson's curiosity; the man was just bursting at the seams trying not to ask the barrage of questions he wanted to.

House sighed, dumping his backpack on his chair and flinging his blazer in the general direction of the desk. He finally turned to face his friend.

"It is _way_ too early for this, Wilson."

"For what? Me following my _best friend_ into his office for some innocent conversation?" House snorted. He had said the word 'innocent', he wasn't even feigning disinterest. This was the prelude to all out interrogation.

"Uh-huh," he said, going to the coffee pot, hoping with every cell in his body that Cameron had stopped by. He needed a hit in preparation.

She hadn't, but such was the desperation that he drank the half-decent coffee that Taub occasionally made in three quick gulps before refilling his mug. He walked back to his office and to his desk, only stopping to pick up the phone.

"Page 2531 to Diagnostics, message should read 'nc'," he barked into the phone. The call served its purpose, distracting Wilson to the point that he stopped and raised his eyebrows at him.

"Taub's coffee sucks that much," he said laughingly, managing to coax a smirk from his friend.

House watched as his best friend, some would say only friend, sit down in the chairs in front of the desk and settled back, hands on his chin.

He groaned when the dreaded, contemplative "hmmm…" escaped Wilson's lips. Wilson sat forward excitedly, and opened his mouth.

"Don't make me beg!" He pleaded. The situation was plead-worthy, in his opinion. The expressions on House's face, the smiling, the laughing, the crying, _the hugging_… the mushy reunion episode that took place in House's office the previous afternoon had everyone who witnessed it discussing it incessantly.

House smiled briefly, because, heart of hearts, he was a gossip too. And Wilson was Wilson, he deserved to know something.

"Sai… I knew her before I met you," he began, "before the infarction, before Stacy, before that night in New Orleans, although not before Michigan. Back when I was a lowly intern, roaming the halls of Mayo. Which is sad, now that I think about it—I've been practicing medicine as long as Sairah's been _alive_, and Brian too, and.." he trailed off.

"And?" Wilson prompted.

"And, good God, do I feel _old_ right now." House was about to say something else, Wilson could tell, but he still chuckled anyway. "I'm almost fifty, Wilson." That last statement was infused with such comical sorrow that Wilson couldn't help but laugh.

"My sympathies, or whatever," he chuckled, having just turned forty one himself, blissfully apathetic about the experience of being a half-century old.

"You don't look a day over forty, darling," a female voice doing a fake Trans-Atlantic accent drawled from the doorway. Forgetting Wilson's presence momentarily, House picked up his lacrosse ball and chucked it at the direction of the voice.

"Shut up," he said chuckling, as Cameron smirked from her post at the doorway. Wilson watched this entire exchange slack-jawed, marveling at the easy, amicable nature that their complex relationship had suddenly adopted. Collecting himself, he spoke.

"Yeah, right? With the wrinkles, thinning, graying hair, the charming get-off-my-lawn vibe… hip, cool and trendy, that's what he is," he said, his voice startling Cameron and re-alerting House to his presence. Cameron smiled at him sheepishly in greeting, which he returned with ease.

"Is 'nc' need coffee or need consult," Cameron asked, grinning.

"Not in the mood for coffee?"

"Not in the mood for consult."

House smirked back at her, which she took as reply enough and headed into the conference room to make a new pot.

"You were saying?" Wilson prompted again.

"About me getting old? I'd rather not, thanks. I've got a record to break," he pronounced, brandishing his PSP in Wilson's face. Wilson sighed, knowing that that was the end of whatever information he was going to get that day. _Oh well_, he thought, perking up on the way out, _I can always ask Cuddy_.

He resolved to do so after his 10 o'clock when his secretary told him his 11 o'clock was canceled.

Cameron came into House's office and handed him his coffee before walking to his yellow chair and flopping down on it. "God, do I need a break," she moaned, as she toed of her clogs and propped them up on the ottoman.

"You look like crap, Cameron," was the reply, and she quirked one eye open and glared at him. He was right, she mused. She did look like crap. And he did sound sincere.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were actually concerned, Dr. House," she said, crossing her arms in amusement.

"What's the use of lobby art if it looks overworked?" he asked.

She smirked.

He stared.

She stared back.

They stared some more.

He broke the silence with a sigh and an imperious wave of his hand.

"Go on," he said, with an air of resignation. "You're just as bad as Wilson is."

She sat up and frowned.

"I'm not as bad as he is, I'm just curious. I don't pry, House, unlike some people. You don't think Wilson will dash downstairs as soon as he can to interrogate Cuddy?"

"Right," he said, already having thought of the possibility.

"Exactly!"

"So you're not going to ask me?" he said, genuinely interested in the answer. She offered him a gentle snort and a look of fond exasperation.

"If there's anything I've learnt being around you, House, is to never push. You can tell me if you want to, you know that. Whenever." House shifted, uncomfortable with the sudden left turn the conversation had taken. He couldn't believe the next words that came out of his mouth.

"Do you want to meet her?"

From her slack jawed expression, she couldn't either.

Wilson strode through the clinic and right into Cuddy's outer office, pausing only to nod to Michael and wait for his signal that she was available. He burst in without so much as a knock, not that Cuddy minded. She was one of the few people that knew that Wilson was just as curious about House, and just as much a gossip. She also knew that he wasn't just looking for gossip, he just wanted to know what his best friend had going on.

"You gonna tell me or do I have to beg again?" He asked without preamble. She laughed lightly, leaning back in her chair.

"I'm not surprised you did it the first time, unwarranted though it may have been. You're referring to our newest addition, right?"

"Addition?"

"Yeah, did you think she showed up just for no reason? Or do you think it was all just a grand coincidence? She had an interview, didn't I tell you about it?"

"Not for the new department?" he asked. Wilson, being part of the Board, was privy to plans Cuddy was making to join the Neo-Natal department with parts of Obstetrics/Gynecology along with the NICU to make a new department. Gynecology was to be on its own, and the new department was going to be called Obstetrics and Neonatology, or OB/NN. The board had stressed to Dr. Cuddy about the importance of having a department head and capable staff put in place as soon as possible to stop the decline of the NICU.

"Yep. I'm telling you, Wilson, she's something else. She's going to be an attending supervising the entire neo-natal section, and if she keeps it up, she's going to be department head before she's thirty."

"_Thirty_?"

"Yeah. She's twenty-four. Child prodigy, it looks like. It's amazing, what this girl has done…" Cuddy trailed off. She motioned for Wilson to sit and started recounting the interview.

_The previous afternoon_

Cuddy had valiantly resisted the temptation to swoop down and ask hundreds of questions until she and her 11:30 walked to her office. The young woman accepted the invitation to sit down on the sofa and set her bag on the floor, crossing her legs.

"So, Dr. Khan, I'm guessing you know Dr. House," she began, wanting to sound as casual as possible. Sairah smirked.

"I do, Dr. Cuddy. But that's a long, long, complicated story that I'm sure that you're going to hear sooner or later," she replied. If this woman was meant to know anything, someone would tell her. Cuddy took the hint, thankfully, and cleared her throat.

"Your credentials are superb, Dr. Khan, I must say. I'm very impressed, to say the least. And the fact that you got Dr. Huntzburger to write you the glowing recommendation he did, in itself is a feat. Now, where and when did you graduate medical school, and why did you choose the specialties you did?"

"Thank you, Dr. Cuddy," Sairah smiled. "Dr. Huntzburger turns into this big teddy bear once there are peanut m & m's in the picture," she continued, causing Cuddy to grin at her. "Okay, I graduated from Oxford at 16, which was eight years ago. I actually started out as a surgical resident, and I found this wonderful mentor who introduced me to neonatal surgery, and I fell in love with it. It was because of her that I did a fellowship in high-risk obstetrics, and she was right again. OB is where I belong, I feel."

"Now tell me, Dr. Khan," Cuddy began. "Why should I hire you?" It was not only a formality, but she was genuinely interested in what this young woman had to say. It wasn't as if she was a shoe-in for the job already, the Board was salivating at the thought of the influx of prestige PPTH was going to get, hiring a brilliant child prodigy.

The young woman drew a deep breath.

"Dr. Cuddy, undoubtedly, as you have, I have worked three times as hard, for three times as long, not only to compensate for being a woman in a man's profession, but to fight off the impression that I was a child in an adult's world. All my life, I have worked _incessantly_ for people to take me seriously, for experienced doctors to even entertain the possibility that the third correct diagnosis I had made that week _wasn't_ a fluke. I realize that I'm not experienced, but as I hope you've gathered, I'm smart, I learn fast, and I'm great under pressure. And my highest priority is the health of my patient, Dr. Cuddy, and I will fight tooth and nail for them." She paused before grinning. "I don't know if I have competition, but I would like to think that I could give any middle-aged man a run for his money."

Cuddy leaned back, and grinned broadly at her.

"You're hired."

Sairah used every cell in her body to restrain herself from emitting an unladylike squeal as she laughed and extended her hand to her boss-to-be.

"Thank you so much, Dr. Cuddy," she began, but was cut off by the older woman.

"The Board and I hope that you will be able to bring the standards of the NN half of the department up, Dr. Khan. Experienced or otherwise, we believe you have the expertise."

The younger doctor beamed at her, and continued beaming as she listened to the usual spiel about pagers, and hours, and salaries. Her excitement at working at PPTH had increased ten-fold when she found out Greg ran Diagnostics. Twenty minutes later, Dr. Cuddy looked up at her newest employee.

"I'd give you the grand tour, but I think you have a preference in guides," she said amusedly, quirking an eyebrow at her.

"I do. If you'll excuse me?"

"Of course," she said, and Cuddy could tell it took the young doctor all she had not to skip out of her office. She smiled, wishing she could follow her up to House's office just to watch her tell him about the interview, but she wished more she knew what was going on between her and her oldest, crankiest friend. The briefest twinge of jealousy took its place in her heart that morning as she watched House hold her, smiling, before she shook it away. Ridiculous, was what it was. Just borne out of shock at the open display of evidence that House did have a heart, that's all. She shook herself and refilled her coffee cup before tackling the huge stack of paperwork before her.

_Still the previous day_

Dr. Sairah Khan, obstetrician extraordinaire, was still smiling as she bounded up the stairs she had climbed just that morning. She opened the door to the fourth floor, fiddling with her pager, when she ran smack dab into another doctor heading her way. The blond was a surgeon, from what she could tell, and the stack of papers he was holding cascaded to the ground.

"I'm so sorry!" she bent down to help him gather his papers.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "If that's the worst thing that could happen today, then it'll be a great day." He smiled at his papers before looking up at the other woman.

"Uh, hi," she laughed, sticking her hand out.

"Hi," he replied, taking her hand.

"Sairah Khan, OBNN," she said, shaking his hand.

"Chase, Robert Chase, Surgery," he said. "And I totally didn't mean for that to come out in a 'Bond, James Bond' kind of way." _Really smooth, mate._

"Nice to meet you, Dr. Chase," laughing, she inclined her head at him before excusing herself.

"You too," he said to the empty space.


	6. Spitfire

A/N: My thanks to Alice11… I aim to please! I realize I said I would keep to canon as much as possible, but Under My Skin has made that impossible... anyway, waiting for the finale with bated breath:D

_Still the previous day_

Sairah slowly approached the glass office in the middle of the fourth floor and watched as Greg paced the conference room to a table of doctors. On the white board, written in shorthand, were symptoms and their progression. He caught her eye and motioned her to enter. _That took barely thirty minutes,_ he thought.

"The next person who says lupus is going to be fired," he warned.

"But it fits!" A brunette argued from her seat at the table.

"Lupus fits everything, doesn't mean everything is lupus! Come on, people, I don't pay you to look pretty."

Sairah hung back near the doorway, the doctors too busy in their differential to notice a foreign presence. Greg finally turned to her and extended a hand.

"Sit. Make yourself useful." She did as he asked, but not before going to the coffee pot to pour herself some coffee.

"I need to see the file, please," she requested, once she settled in to her seat. House motioned to the African-American doctor seated at the end of the table, who tossed her his copy of the case file.

"Blood work?"

"As soon as we rule out some things," the same doctor answered.

"Symptoms?" House nodded to another short, balding doctor.

"Headache, rapidly worsening nausea and vomiting, upper abdominal pain, tenderness on the right side. Oh, and female, thirty one years old, twenty seven weeks pregnant."

"Options?"

"Foreman thinks it's hepatitis, Thirteen thinks it's gall bladder disease, I don't agree with either, but I'm not allowed to talk since I haven't come up with a better idea."

"Do me a favor, get another ultrasound," she said, sitting back into the chair and getting into doctor mode. "And while you're at it, liver enzymes, and a platelet count, and look at the blood through a microsope." She directed her comments at Greg.

House stared her, and cocked his head before smirking.

"Should have known you'd join the gyne- squad," he said amusedly.

"Yeah, you know, on account of life being all puppies and rainbows and pink things over there," was the reply.

His eyes crinkled at her in amusement before he turned to his team.

"You heard the lady," he said. They scrambled out of their chairs before the pretty brunette stopped and turned around, causing the other two to stop as well.

"Remy Hadley, internist, but everyone calls me Thirteen," she said. Sairah rose, smiling at the other doctor and extending her hand.

"Sairah Khan, OBNN," she began, "pleasure, Dr. Hadley. I don't have any interesting nicknames, but everybody calls me either Sairah or Khan."

Reluctantly, the two men hovering in the doorway came back in to introduce themselves.

"Eric Foreman, neurologist, future diagnostician." That one earned a snort from House and a grin from Sairah.

"Chris Taub, ex-plastic surgeon," was all the other one said.

"Fabulous, we can build a camp fire at dusk. Go run the tests!" House snapped, causing them to walk into the hallway.

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He turned to the young woman across the room.

"Hey, kid."

"Hey, Greg." She walked back to her place on the table and looked at the man in question. He crossed the rest of the distance, placing a hand on her back to guide her back into the office. He offered her a seat in his yellow chair, grinning as she promptly divested herself of her shoes and tucked her feet under her.

"Go on," she said. "Ask me."

"Khan?" The first question was asked.

"Long, angsty version, or short, sweet version?"

"Long and angsty, please," he requested.

"I wanted to change my name. Sairah sounded better with Khan anyway, and you know it was Dadajaan's last name, and…"

"And? You changed your name into your mother's maiden name because…"

"Because whether he is aware of it or not, he and I didn't part on the best terms, and I just didn't want to be associated with him anymore. I was graduating med school, and I just wanted a blank slate."

"Not to be associated with your father personally."

"And professionally."

"Are you ever going to tell me the whole story?" He asked, receiving a sigh in reply.

"Eventually," she conceded, and he nodded to her. _Fair enough, for now._

"Next," she declared, smiling wryly.

"What, when, where, why and how?" That earned him a laugh.

"Let's start with med school. Oxford, like you couldn't tell already. Graduated fall after turning 16; slightly behind schedule, but whatever. Why, because I met a Dr. Stabler in London, and… it just _clicked_, for me. She helped me get the double specialty when complete tools like Read wouldn't let me into an OR…" He cut her off.

"Read… you were a surgical resident? Since when are you into mindless butchering?" Her jaw dropped and she started laughing.

"Excuse me? There are other equally _noble _ambitions other than Nephrology and Infectious Disease, Greg! I was, _am_, very good, thanks so much. Yeah, you might think so, but I did my surgical residency under Stabler for neo-natal surgery, and care in general. How, well, if it weren't for her, I wouldn't have been able to do my fellowship in high risk obstetrics." He raised his eyebrows. No wonder she had an interview here.

"So Cuddy scoped you out?"

"I guess… they're apparently forming an OBNN department, and they needed a right-hand bird for the NN bit."

"Board certified gynecologist?"

"Damn straight!"

He chuckled. She had done so well, his bright little girl. He had always hoped, when she expressed a desire to join the family business, so to speak, that she would forsake Pediatrics and Psychiatry in favor of Nephrology, or maybe even just Infectious Disease. But she went and picked something totally different, in usual Sairah style.

"Sai…" Her head snapped up at the tone of his voice. "How have you been, kid? I mean how have _they_ been?"

"The years, you mean? Just as fabulous as yours seem to have been," she said, laughing.

"Do I look that bad?"

"You're still thirty five in my head, PG." He laughed at the familiar nickname and his face softened. "Dare I ask," she questioned, pointing to his cane.

"Infarction, rectus femoris, vastus intermedialis, parts of medialis and lateralis." Her brows furrowed in thought before it dawned on her.

"You wouldn't let them amputate."

"Sairah."

"I wouldn't have either." That stopped all the thoughts in his head and the scolding he was about to dish out. He swiveled to move out of his chair and limp into the balcony.

He tilted his head without looking back and waited until she was resting her lower arms on the banister next to him.

"You remember Stacy don't you?" His lips quirked at the immediate expression of distaste that had settled on her face.

"Yeah," she said.

"I thought you liked her…"

"I was nice because I had to be. I hated the Southern belle act, I hated the hair, and mostly, I hated that you didn't visit nearly as often, and when you did, it was like a top secret mission."

"Was not…"

"Was too!"

"I did visit just as much, kid, she came with me."

"Excuse me if those don't count in my mind." He smiled before straightening and setting a hand on her head.

"I'm…" She smiled, letting his hand travel down her head. He tried to communicate that he was sorry, that he regretted not spending alone time with her (post-Stacy) so much over the years. What he ended up doing was stepping closer and wrapping an arm around her, kissing the top of her head.

"Forgiven." He marveled at her ability to read him, and smiled, knowing that even though she thought she had forgiven him, it would resurface, if genetics were anything to go by. Alia Khan had been a champion grudge holder.

He felt her sigh against his chest before turning her head up.

"Why did we bring her up again?" Now it was his turn to sigh. Ignoring his instinct and staring at the street below, he spoke.

"Well, she was my medical proxy. And it took two days for somebody to diagnose the infarction; correction, for _me_ to diagnose the infarction, and a big chunk of the quads were damaged, and I wanted to induce a coma and just de-clot."

"I feel a 'but' coming on…"

"Stacy consulted Cuddy, they talked, and after I went under, she gave consent for debridement."

"That must have gone well."

"To say the least."

"She…"

"Left."

"Ah."

"And you…"

"Pain defines my life, kid, and Vicodin defines my persona. I've changed. A lot. I'm a bitter old man, now, not the spring chicken that lives in your head," he said, prompting a laugh from her.

"I'm sure the nurses think you're sexy."

"When they're not homicidal."

"Not that it's your fault they are," she scoffed. She finally stepped back and looked up at him, eyes suddenly welling with tears. His hand came back to rest on her head.

"This is probably the last thing you want to hear, but I'm so, so, sorry, Greg. You don't deserve it. Any of it."

"I'm not a saint either." He felt an irrational twinge of guilt at her tearful whisper.

"I know, but still."

"Thank you." Her head came back to rest on his chest.

"Anytime," came out cloaked in a sigh. Neither of them noticed Wilson stare from his office. She tilted her head up once more.

"You said something about lunch?"

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They went to the cafeteria, at her insistence. House had showed her all of the "important" places in the hospital from the parapet wall above the lobby, then moving to show her actually important places, like the morgue, the "veggie" ward, the cafeteria, the locker room, the exam room with the cushiest table, the lab, and of course, the OB lounge.

"Go away, House," one of the residents greeted him. House raised his eyebrows and stepped aside to let Sairah look around.

"Niiiiiicceeeee," she drawled, eliciting a grin from House.

"Right!?"

"Uh, excuse me, who are you?" The resident's mood was rapidly moving from irritated to full-on huffy.

"Unless they make a separate lounge for NN, I'm in the right place. Sairah Khan, newly hired supervisor for the Neonatal Division." She extended her hand and raised an eyebrow, sizing up the resident.

"Dr. Cuddy didn't send us any memo," she continued, ignoring the proffered hand.

"Give it a couple hours. Dr. House, I believe you were leading me to your patient's room?" House raised an eyebrow, but stepped back to open the door for her. As she passed, he whispered something that made her stop in her tracks and do a u-turn.

"Dr. Chen, I believe I'll see you at the department staff meeting tomorrow." The resident started and turned around.

"Yes, but will I be seeing you?"

House had his _oh, snap_ face on.

"Great first impression, soldier." She turned around and walked out, hanging back for House to catch up to her. He grinned. She was completely composed, aside from the vigorous flaring of the nostrils. He watched as her shoes pounded on the linoleum and winced in sympathy for the pain that would cause. _Poor kid_.

"Can you power the generators too? We could go green." He flinched as she stopped in her tracks and whirled on him. She was smiling, but not in any conventional sense of the word.

"You want to know how they've been, Greg? This is how they've been. I've been the fricking water boy for eight years. The one that comes up with all the plays and gets nothing in return except for sweaty pads. If it's not for being a woman in a man's world, it's for being a child in an adult's profession, or a Muslim in a redneck's domain. This is how it's been, ever since I've left Oxford." His eyes widened, and he wisely stopped himself from commenting on the lack of mention of the _other_ six years from the mini-outburst. House placed a hand on her back, marveling at the easy, pleasant tone of her voice.

_It's a gift_.

House guided Sairah to the elevators after suggesting cautiously that they find her future office.

Foreman entered on the third floor, and handed a file to House.

"Hemolytic anemia, check, elevated liver enzymes, check, low platelet count, check." House turned and grinned at the young doctor to his left, who smirked back. Foreman, for the first time, seemed to really look at her. He gave her a once over, sizing her up.

"It's HELLP Syndrome, confirmed." He spoke to no one in particular. House handed the file back. "It's Dr. Khan's patient, now. Clear it with Cuddy."

"I don't start for a fortnight, but you should schedule a C-section sometime soon, preferably next week. I'll swing by and do an ultrasound, though."

"Another one?" Both chorused. She smiled patiently.

"Yep. I'd just like to be there, if you don't mind."

"Uh.. no, not at all. I'll talk to Cuddy." The elevator dinged, and Foreman got off on the fourth floor, but not before sending a measured glance to the new young doctor. _Huh._

"Score one for the water boy."

"Damn straight," she laughed, and rapped knuckles with him.

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They cruised by the seventh floor, and House pointed out the NICU, the ORs, and the now-empty office of the recently retired NICU attending.

"Come on, kid. I'll use you as an excuse to go home early."

"You wanna supervise the unpacking?" _Pegged_, he thought as he grinned at her.

"Deal."

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Come on, peeps. Press the pretty button! Comments, questions, concerns, criticisms, lyrical waxing and odes to my awesomeness... anything. Oh, and anybody who cares: the next chapter goes back to where the previous one left off. (Do you want to meet her?) Yeah, I have chronology issues.


	7. Confrontations

A/N: My profuse thanks to the ever-fabulous iyimgrace for helping me "iron out" stuff about this chapter. Comes back to where Mistery (Chapter 6) left off before the flashback. House asks Cameron if she wanted to meet _**Her**_, and this picks up later that day. Second section on is Wilson's POV. Enjoy!

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Cameron smoothed her t-shirt nervously with one hand as the other balanced boxes of pizza as she stood outside a handsome cherry door with gold lettering declaring it to be belonging to S. Khan. She could hear muted music and loud voices behind the door as she lifted her fist to knock on the door.

"It's open!" House's voice sounded through. Smiling slightly, she twisted the doorknob and entered.

Boxes. Boxes lined the periphery of the small living room, filled with clothes, books, bits of unassembled furntiture. She found an empty spot to place her offering and ventured deeper.

"Hello?"

"Kitchen!" This time the voice was female.

She came into the decently sized kitchen to find House sitting on the floor, drinking, _was that soda?_ The young woman she was to meet today stood behind the tiny island, organizing cutlery into various drawers.

"Cameron," She looked at House. He nodded to the other woman, who looked up and seemed to suddenly realize she had a guest.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Cameron, I'm so sorry the place looks like Katrina just swept through," she began, and Cameron exhaled the breath the didn't realize she was holding and smiled.

"Unclench," House ordered, and for a second Cameron thought the admonishment was aimed at her until she saw the sheepish look on the other woman's face. "It's just Cameron."

Cameron smiled at this, clasping the extended hand but not shaking. "He's right, you know, it's just me. Allison Cameron, we haven't been formally introduced yet."

The other woman laughed.

"Well, just Cameron, Sairah Khan. Pleasure to meet you."

"Allison."

"Sairah, then." Both women smiled at each other.

"I brought pizza," she offered, smiling back at the sigh of relief that came from Sairah.

"Thank you, Allison, but you really shouldn't have. Greg was just contemplating making the traditional 'moving' lunch."

"Leftovers, then."

"Great," House quipped. "That lets me off the hook."

Cameron snorted. "Were you really going to cook?"

"I doubt 'moving' meals can be considered cooking, but yeah, to stop the whining."

"Yours or hers?"

"Mine," Sairah interjected. "It's been forever since I had one, so I was trying to make him get supplies."

Allison perched herself on the countertop. "Do I want to know?"

"Probably not," they chorused.

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"How are your furniture assembly skills?"

"I left my decoder ring in the office, House."

"Wilson. How are your furniture assembly skills?"

"You bought new furniture?"

"Oh thank God, I thought I had to repeat myself again."

"Hanging up!"

"Sai needs your help." The spoon in Wilson's hand stopped just below his mouth, milk cascading back into the bowl it came from. He heard female voices and laughter in the background. One of the voices got clearer and closer.

"_That's completely unesscary, Greg, put the phone down. I'm sure Dr. Wilson has better things to do, and Allison is plenty of help_."

"Too bad you can't assemble furniture for nuts."

_"That's why I have you, haven't I?" _The voice got louder._ "My apologies, Dr. Wilson."_

"He doesn't need your apologies."

_"True, he really doesn't, but you're going to have to introduce her sometime," _a new female voice joined the mix he recognized as Cameron's.

"Hence assembling furniture. He might as well make himself useful in the process."

_"Gregory House, model of pragmatism. Dr. Wilson, I really don't need any help, but you're welcome here anytime." _"Sai" sounded apologetic. He heard..._ shrieking?_. An image of House tickling the young woman sprang unbidden to his mind._  
_

_"She'd probably like to meet the man who's been handling House for a..."_ Wilson couldn't see it, but Cameron was making quotes around the word "handling".

"Decade," interjected House.

_"..decade,_" finished Cameron.

"Uh, okay." Was all he could say.

"Fabulous," House's voice sounded again. "2100 Tammaron Drive, and bring..." he was cut off again.

_"I already bought pizza, Wilson, just bring yourself."_

"Uh, okay."

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Curiosity got the best of him. He paused at the sight of his ratty McGill sweatshirt, before rifling through his closet to find a black sweatshirt with the letters PPTH emblazoned across them. Out of courtesy more than anything else, he grabbed the casserole that was supposed to be for dinner, and headed to his car.

When you pass the 2000 mark, he discovered, Tamarron drive was lined with cozy looking townhouses. It was also a fair bit out of the way. It was a whole fifteen minutes from where he lived, but not more than ten from House's. Close to the hospital, but in the other direction. Driving to Plainsboro was always an adventure, he mused, as he narrowly passed an accident on the corner of Plainsboro and Hunter's Glen and took the long way to Tamarron. Wilson pulled up into the nearest available parking space, and crossed the lot towards the un-curtained, first floor apartment of House's... _friend_.

He could see them already, talking and laughing. House had been propped against the wall with the help of a giant, firm-looking purple cushion just outside the kitchen, Cameron was sitting cross-legged on the island, and the mystery woman was standing barefoot on the counter top, reaching above the highest cabinet. He entered the archway and went to the recently-polished cherry door and used the brass knocker. Twice.

"Allison, could you..."

"Sure," Cameron's voice floated to his ears as the door opened with a _whoosh_. She looked different, he realized, in jeans and a long-sleeved teal t-shirt, hair down and eyes smiling. She _didn't _look exhausted, for once. He smiled when she pecked him on the cheek and relieved him of his burden.

"Come in, come in," she gestured, and he saw House acknowledge his presence, as was his habit, with a raise of his eyebrows that would be imperceptible to anyone else. Sai, as House had referred to her, hopped down from the counter top and wiped her hands on jeans that looked like they were once blue. She walked toward him, extending her hand.

"Really unnecessary. If that was just Cameron, and this is just Wilson," House said, and Wilson raised his eyebrows at him.

"Thanks?" The almost-question was answered by a "Anytime, Jimmy."

"What is it with you and last names?" She turned and smiled at him as he decided to take initiative.

"James Wilson," he said, ignoring the addition of "... Boy Wonder Oncologist!" by his obviously merry friend.

"Sairah Khan. Pleasure, Dr. Wilson," she said, giving his hand a firm shake and smiling at his widened eyes. "I know, I shake like a bloke. Please, come in, have a seat..." she looked around. "... wherever. Greg's cushion should have a twin somewhere."

He watched as she circled the living room, and then the dining room, peering in all the boxes until she found what she was looking for in a box stashed in the loft. She brought a dark brown cushion the same size and firmness and offered to him, which he took, and settled down at a distance.

Wilson blinked at Cameron as she tried to draw him into the conversation.

"Wilson is a fantastic cook, Sairah. House cons him into cooking whenever he can." He noticed Sairah's head slowly rotating to face House as her eyebrows threatened to slide into her hair, and then House giving her a look that silenced her silent question.

"Thank you very much, Dr. Wilson, for coming, and for the casserole," she seemed to parrot.

Wilson merely inclined his head at her. "No trouble at all," he replied flatly, watching as Cameron's eyebrows began ascent as the temperature of the room suddenly lowered.

The young woman only squirmed, as she dug linens out of a box, and started to blow up an Aerobed.

Cameron suddenly spoke again. "You're going to need to make a trip to the grocery store, Sai, no milk, no coffee," she smiled at the theatrical gasp emitted by the young woman. _Sai? _Wilson's eyebrows knotted together. _Since when is Cameron buddy-buddy with her? And just _what_ is Cameron doing here anyway? How come House is "helping"? One day, this random woman drops from the sky, and suddenly, Sai this, Sai that, Sai lets-all-build-a-campfire? _

His thoughts were cut off by the reply. "I should really do it now, before I'm too tired from unpacking."

"You want me to go with you?" Cameron asked.

"Why not?" Sairah smiled at her.

He found himself nodding at them as they slipped on their bags and coats. "Be back, PG!" was heard through the door as Wilson decided to seize the oppurtunity.

_Battle stance, check._

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_"__PG?" _He was incredulous, and just this side of livid. He sounded it, too.

"Nickname." Wilson snorted ungraciously.

"For what? Pompous Guy? Pseudo-Genius.... pig without the I?" It was all Wilson could come up with at the moment. _Pig without the I. God._

"Nice."

"Then what does it mean?" Wilson saw as a myriad of emotions crossed House's face as he hesitated. _Did he just look remorseful? _The brief unfocusing of brilliant blue eyes just served to increase his ire.

"It's... something she used to call me when she was little." Frustration now won the wrestling contest with anger, as he sprung from his seat, and gripped the back of his neck, face rapidly turning pink.

"See!?! Who the is this girl, House? What is she doing here? She comes traipsing into your office, there's an incredibly mushy reunion episode, then all of a sudden, _you're in a good mood_, there's hugging, and kissing, and reflective conversations on the balcony.... and.. and.. what the fuck is Cameron doing here?"

"She was the love child of my best friend and I took her in. I tried to say no but they made me Godfather anyway. What can I say." House's attempt at deflection elicited another snort. _Yeah right. Like any sane person would trust his child with Gregory House._

"Don't deflect. I deserve an explanation, and God knows I'm still being extremely patient about it, and unlike you, I've resisted snooping so far, but goddammit, as your best friend, don't you think I deserve something?" _Damn right_. He did deserve something. After all that he did for House, after all that he suffered through, of all the he was.. _deprived_ of.. he deserved an explanation when the man famously allergic to non-sexual physical contact was suddenly hugging people. _Person._

"No, Wilson. She is a part of my past... God, it feels like a _lifetime_ ago. Before I met you, so I don't owe you an explanation. And Cameron is here, because at short notice, she's the only one I could think of that could be her friend. I'm too nice to drop her into the death trap that is Cuddy, and Foreman's a robot, and Thirteen's... a robot too, and besides she has too much baggage, and Taub, let's not even start, and Chase is still licking his wounds. Cameron was the only choice. And oh, look, I was right."

"That's not.. wait, you're concerned for her welfare? Are you trying to find good influences? My God... and this brings me back to my original question. Who is she and just what is she doing here?" His eyes widened as House's head whipped around to face him. "

"You know what's interesting?" Wilson bit back a groan. _What? What, House? What's interesting? Besides your obvious evasion? Besides the obvious complexity of this situation?_

House continued, ignoring Wilson's eye-roll to the heavens.

"It's interesting that Cameron's presence is bugging you more than Sai's reappearance. In comparison to Cameron being here, you couldn't care _less_ about Sairah. You're just pissed I didn't tell you first, and that I didn't introduce her to you first, that you're as blindsided as anybody when you are beleived to know everything. You're furious that Cameron met her before you."

Wilson's jaw remained dropped as the front door creaked open, signaling the arrival of the women in question.

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A/N: Let me take out all my pent-up wrath on the coward who left the anonymous review.. Mary Sue, _my ass._ If you have something constructive to say, say it, don't work out your anger issues in my reviews! Criticism is more than welcome, but, for God's sake, there is really no need to be a bitch about it. Additionally, I'd like to thank you for the implication that the various people that inspired Sairah are perfect. They'll appreciate it.


	8. Between the Lines

A/N: I know, I suck for not updating for this long. This takes us through the subsequent days, up to that weekend. Also, this chapter contains lots of self-indulgent wish fulfillment, since what happens below is the one thing that I always wish that really did happen. (Dum dum duuuum!) Thanks as always to the ever-fabulous iyimgrace for helping me iron out this chapter, and of course, to those who subscribe/read. (Speak up! Even if it's to tell me, _gently_, that this sucks, or to clear up something, or to ask me whatever.)

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Wilson had left soon after, making excuses that sounded feeble even to him. And so, the next few days passed similarly, he discovered. The young woman he had scoped (however briefly) out, had now turned into this best-friend snatching... _monster._

Wilson started to hate the sight of her. The sound of her. Even the smell of her.. the delicate scent of jasmine that would waft into his nostrils as she brushed past him at the hospital, smiling at him every time. She would stroll in at 9, visit the ER, chat with Cameron, go upstairs, do some of House's paperwork, or consult, have lunch, and leave to do what he could only presume was unpacking. He saw everything, from the nurse's station, the clinic, the cafeteria, the lobby, his office. The unfamiliar frown on his face would just deepen when House would stroll into the cafeteria at lunch, greeting her with a hand on her head and a grin. A grimace would settle on his mouth every time he saw House smile at her, or every time she looked up at him, like a puppy after a belly rub. _Adoring._

Why she would want to do House's paperwork, he would never understand. She can't spend the few days she has out of the hospital... _out of the hospital?_

Cuddy, uncharacteristically excited, had informed him that Jane Neutron would start the following Monday.

Whoop-de-fucking-doo.

He was irrational. He knew it. So, he did what anybody in his position would do.

He went to Cuddy.

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He entered her office, brandishing purple tickets at her.

"Who deserves a raise?" was his opening line. He couldn't help but smile as Cuddy's head snapped up, and the finger rose into the air. (No, not that finger.)

An elegantly manicured pointer signaled to him, along with an eye-roll, to '_wait, while I finish with this idiot'_.

Five minutes later found Wilson sprawled on Cuddy's couch, waiting for Cuddy to finish trying to hang up.

"Yes, thank you very much. Yes, I know. It's almost dinnertime here too. Yes, she's well, thank you. Yes, she's at home. I will, as soon as you and I finish speaking. Right. Thank you. Good night," she said, putting the phone down and stretching with a sigh.

"Hey." She seemed to notice his presence.

"Hey yourself, boss lady. Was that McBride on the phone?"

"Gah. Yes, couldn't you tell by the eye-rolling? God, that man needs a wife. Or a shrink. Something." She sighed again, smiling at her friend as he snorted.

"You look tired, Cuddy. Which leads me back to my earlier question: Who deserves a raise?"

"Thanks. Perks of the job." Her eyes narrowed suddenly. "What did you do?"

"Arranged for an OD of Bruce Juice." He laughed at the gasp that that elicited.

"No!"

"Right here." She looked at the tickets, front-row seats to see Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, May 23rd, in New Brunswick. She emitted an unladylike squeal and rushed over to throw herself at a laughing Wilson.

"Wilson! Oh James, you really shouldn't have, but I'm so glad you did. Thank you, thank you, thank you!" It was then, when she was bouncing up and down in his arms that she grabbed his face and kissed him, hard. Pulling back, she squealed again. Clapping her hands, she ran over to her desk and called her nanny, smiling brilliantly.

Wilson was still seeing stars when Cuddy got off the phone again and smiled, embarrassed, at his dazed expression.

"Just for that, James Wilson, we're going out. This calls for cake, doesn't it? Or pie." She stopped in her tracks at the coat rack, and turned to him with a beatific smile. "Or something frozen!"

"Lisa Cuddy, wildchild. Look out!" Cuddy laughed giddily, taking his arm and leading him outside the door. "Well," he said, "I vote cake." They were completely oblivious to the tittering of the nurses and the positively salacious wink sent his way by the new nurse in Radiology.

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A half-hour later found them waiting in line at what had become Wilson's favorite place to eat-- The Bent Spoon. Of course, he never went there with House, it took a disasterous trip to a Sprinkles at his first post-infarction conference to determine that crowds+cane= bad idea. But House continues to occasionally browbeat him into bringing him a pint or twelve of the heavenly hazelnut gelato, which he does gladly. After convincing Cuddy to order the gelato and a quart of the blood orange sorbet for later, and ordering some insane-looking chocolate cake for himself, they ventured outside into the cool spring air and settled in an outer table of a nearby coffee shop.

He grinned at Cuddy's guttural moan that accompanied the first bite of gelato.

"I _cannot _believe you've never been here!"

"Contrary to popular belief, I do work." Cuddy raised her eyebrow at him.

"This place has been open for what, six years? I need to come here at least thrice a month to satisfy House's gelato craving," he said.

_"_Somehow, that does not surprise me. I need to tell him to bring Dr. Khan here," Cuddy replied, and Wilson almost choked on his cake. And barely refrained from punching the air with an adolescent exclamation of _YES!_

_He shoots, and he scores! Thank you very much, I'll be here all week!_

"You know, my fabled status as best friend has gotten me absolutely no information on the new girl, Cuddy."

"Oh my God, really?" Cuddy batted her eyelashes and unleashed her long-dormant, inner valley girl, much to Wilson's amusement. "What are we, in high school?"

"No, really. All of a sudden, this woman saunters into House's office, and there's a completely un-House-like cheesy reunion episode, and... poof! gone. For six straight days, I haven't seen him at all! Who is this woman?"

"You're _upset_ that he's not mooching food from you?"

"Yes! Contrary to popular belief, I don't hate my best friend." He placed his fork down very carefully, studiously ignoring Cuddy's muffled snort.

"Well, I know as much as you know, Wilson. She's a wonderful doctor, her record is impeccable, she's treated a few baffling cases herself over the years, and it's as if she learns by osmosis. And in half the time. Her last name is Khan, not House, so I can only speculate as to her relationship with House, but I'm not going to. What's interesting is that you...." She trailed off, narrowing her eyes. "Wilson! James, are you.. _jealous_?"

"_What? No!_" The coffee in his hands scalded his skin as his incredulous hands shook the cup.

"Then? My God... you bribed me!" Wilson froze, and slowly blinked at the laughter that escaped Lisa Cuddy's mouth. Beautiful, light, gurgling laughter. Oblivious, she continued. "You know, half the state wonders why you two are friends, myself included, but God help me, you're perfect for each other!" She continued chuckling. "The look on your face!"

He cleared his throat nervously. "Sorry, Lisa," he said, as her head snapped up at his use of her given name.

"It's quite alright." He visibly deflated when she shot him a smile full of mirth.

He continued. "No, really. Snooping is his thing, not mine," he rolled his eyes at her snort. "It's just that.. in such a short time, this complete stranger has... _consumed_ him, you know? They're always having lunch together, she's always consulting, he's helping unpack, she's constantly in his office, or in the ER.. or wandering everywhere..." He trailed off at her amused expression.

"What?" He half-snapped.

"Nothing. It took House a whole month to crack. It's almost funny that you don't realize how things have come full-circle. Now, all you need to do is ask for joint custody, and failing that, go to a bar in the middle of the day and get drunk."

He choked this time.

"Face it, James, you need him as much as he needs you. As much as you try to convince the world and yourself otherwise, it's a symbiotic relationship. It might not be proportionate, but there is give and take." With that, Cuddy rose gracefully from her seat, and came around to kiss him on the cheek and grip his shoulder.

"Thanks again. See you tommorow."

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He found himself turning into the familiar crowded street, and sliding into the space behind the bright orange death trap. Out of habit, it seemed, that he killed the engine and and stepped up to the green door. He pulled out the familiar, worn, brass key and slid it in, letting himself in.

And froze.

They were at the piano, House on the bench, fingers gently grazing the keys as the object of Wilson's ire lounged against the side, humming along. House's head snapped up at the intrusion, lips curling imperceptibly, and inclined his head in greeting.

"Hey," Wilson said, at a loss for words. _What am I doing here?_

_"_Good evening, Doctor Wilson," Sairah smiled at him, dodging the playful hand aiming a smack at her head.

He opened his mouth to reply, surprised as it closed of it's own accord. Instead, what came out was, "Um.. House, I need to speak to you."

Upon the rise of a graceful eyebrow, he added, "Outside."

Irritation prickled under his skin when she dislodged herself from the piano, and walked to the kitchen to pick up her purse. "And that's my cue. I'll see you tommorow, PG," she said, accepting the hand on her head and the half-smile House had gotten up to bestow upon her.

Then she looked Wilson in the eyes and said, "Dr. Wilson, if you could be so kind as to escort me out."

Dumbstruck, he nodded. "..... of course." Still at a loss for words, he watched as she slipped into the thin trench coat that adorned the armchair and smiled at House. He didn't know if it as because of the accent, or her impeccable manners, but something possessed him to open the door for her. He was oblivious to House's surprised smirk and Sairah's slow smile.

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They had stood outside for barely a second when she turned to him.

"You don't like me. I don't pretend to understand why, nor do I presume it's my place to question it. But I want to inform you of something, Dr. Wilson. That man in there is one I had given up hope of seeing. Ever. The past fourteen years have been a special kind of hell without him. He is the closest thing I've had to a parent, to a _father_, to a person who actually gives a flying rat's arse. So please, I'd like to assuage whatever concerns you have. I'm not going anywhere. I'm here and I'm here to stay, come what may. Now that I've found him, I'm not planning on letting go. The way the man lives his life, the way he does his work, is all or nothing. I'm in it for the long haul. I'm picking all, no matter what anybody has to say or do about it." Her head inclined and she raised her eyebrow at him over tiny rimless glasses. "Now, you and I can get in each other's way, and I can continue to irritate you, or we can make everybody's life easier, including ours, by being civil, if not friendly. Good night, Dr. Wilson. Pleasure seeing you again."

Dumbstruck. Again. He was starting to notice a pattern. She had nodded crisply to him, and turned around and walked down the street to House's old junker and got in. The calm, pleasant voice seemed to wash over him, again and again. His eyes were still wide as a slow smile spread across his mouth, easing into a chuckle. He was still smiling as he let himself in again.

"What was _that _about?"

"Nothing at all." House snorted incredulously as Wilson loosened his tie and kicked off his shoes. "I came to tell you something..." he trailed off nervously.

"Out with it. Or do you want mood lighting and Marvin Gaye?"

"I came to say I'm sorry." He fixed his gaze on the floor as House cleared his throat repeatedly and coughed to get rid of the beer that seemed to get stuck there.

And.. nothing. House was staring at the floor too, picking at his worn pajamas with interest.

"I'm sorry the way I acted... between Amber's death and the funeral. I'm sorry I asked you to risk your most valuable asset, the one thing that you're proud of, the one thing that makes you _you_, the thing that makes you indespensable... and _special_. I'm grateful, though, that you did. I didn't then, but I'm flattered...._humbled_ that you would risk it for me. And I'm even more sorry, not that it's the same, because I now know how it feels, sort of, when your best friend is consumed by some stranger."

He ignored the startled look House gave him and pushed on.

"I didn't realize that I've been an... ass. A stubborn, proud, obstinate, _blind_... ass. And I'm sorry for taking advantage of you, and I'm sorry for any and all pain that I've caused. You live with so much, and I... the last thing I wanted to do was to hurt you, despite appearances to the contrary... and I'm so, so, sorry, House. I'm sorry I threw a three-moth long pity party for one, and I'm sorry for making you the scapegoat. And I want to tell you, now, that I'm not going anywhere, and I mean it this time. I'm sorry for lecturing instead of fixing, for giving you the impression that I don't like you the way you are. I do. Very much. I wouldn't be friends... _best friends_ with someone I didn't... _love._

I'm also sorry for walking away, everytime it counted. I'm sorry for making you feel unworthy. A wise woman just told me that the way you live your life, the way you do your work, the way you conduct yourself... is all or nothing. From here on out, I pick all. I'm most sorry for being ambivalent about that all these years."

During the countless times he would look back on this moment, he would swear that House's brilliant blue eyes were wet when he looked at the television, and replied with a choked voice.

"Yeah."

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	9. Ever Present Past

A/N: My thanks to Tockie16, bahahumbug, HouseLuvr, KristenJ350, Dr. Ally House, (and iyimgrace for just being awesome) as well as everyone who reads. This takes us up to and including Sairah Khan's first day of work. I made references! If you recognize it, it's obviously not mine.

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House kept staring at the television when a large, warm hand came to grip his shoulder. Wilson was standing over him, all... shiny-eyed and smiling. For once, House didn't feel like deflecting, or avoiding. It wasn't easy, by any stretch of the imagination, but he just didn't feel up to evasion that night. His train of thought was cut short.

"I knew you'd meet me halfway."

And for once, House didn't restrain his smile. He looked down at his feet again before clearing his throat.

"I... thank you."

"Anytime."

"Wilson..." A strange emotion colored his tone. "I..." he faltered again. The big, warm hand squeezed this time, and Wilson smiled again.

"Yeah."

To House's relief, Wilson sank back down on the armchair. Almost an hour passed. Nursing his fourth bourbon of the night, his mouth opened of its own accord.

"I met Alia Khan for the first time when my father was stationed in California, very briefly. It was just for two years, and I had no idea what he was doing there, but it was fun, in a different way than Egypt, or Japan, or Pakistan was. We spent six months in New York right before moving to the house we last lived in, the one you've been to. He was always on the base, and I would roam around the city, take trains all over the place, just have fun. Three of those six months were summer vacation, so the weather was perfect. I met Alia at one of the country clubs my father was invited to. We were the only two teenagers in the place, so we stayed in a corner of the room when everybody else was mingling. I think for those four, five hours, I was constantly in awe of this girl. I didn't see her after that, but we did write to each other. _A lot_." He half-laughed.

"No matter where I was, we kept in touch. Even though I was American, and a boy, and countless other things. The next time I saw her was when she was suddenly standing next to me in line at Nolan's.._in Hopkins_." He exhaled. "She was the first actual friend I had, forget best friend. We did everything together... she even transferred to Michigan for me, to her father's obvious... displeasure. And there she met Brian. Long story short, they dated, they fell in love, they got engaged. All of us moved to Arizona. We were interns in Mayo. Me, nephrology, Brian, psych, and Alia, peds. And he had knocked her up, which effectively ended her medical career. Alia wanted to stay home and take care of her kid, despite any of us saying anything. Including her new husband." He snorted this time, and there was an edge to it.

"Brian was an absentee boyfriend, absentee fiance, absentee husband. It only fits the pattern that he was an absentee father. Did you know he wasn't even there for the birth? He showed up the next day, claiming he was stuck somewhere, but Alia... Alia let Brian get away with murder. I was there, when she went into labor, and I was there for the birth. I almost had to deliver Sairah in the back of a supermarket. I was.. terrified." He was leaning back now, a slight smile on his face. "But I was there, and I sat behind her in the ambulance and supported her... and I got to cut the cord. Nobody cared what Brian had to say on the subject, but Sai... she is.. _was_, half-mine. I was the guy who would take over if anything happened, and I was her godfather. I taught her how to play the piano, how to ride her bike, hell, I bought the bike. I visited, more than any friend of the family ought to, because Sairah... was not like other kids. She did everything early, as you've probably figured out. She was holding her head up at two months, rolling over at three, talking at eight months, walking at nine... she was playing sonatas at four, and started composing at six. It took me a while, but she started jazz improvisations on her own.

He took a deep, fortifying breath.

"The problem came about fourteen years ago. Miraculously, Brian chose to be home that birthday, and Sairah had turned eleven, which were apparently the actual double digits, so naturally Alia had to throw a party. And naturally the house had to look as if Libby Lou threw up all over it. I don't have any idea what possessed him to ask, but he did. He knew Alia and I knew each other, before she met him. And Brian's foot... it might as well have been surgically implanted in his mouth." Pause. "He found out."

The pounding in his head accompanying the sudden reminiscing was alleviated with another drink.

"About?" Wilson finally asked.

"About me. And about Alia. About us, I should say."

"Were you two in.. a _relationship?"_

"I'd hardly call it a relationship. It was like me.. and.." His face twisted into an expression of distaste. "_Cuddy._ It was a lapse of judgement that resulted in a roll in the hay. Alia was my best, best friend. She was my family. As nice as it was to have her, it was equally nice for her to have me. To call me in a panic when Sai got the croup at three or the chicken pox at eight. God.." He exhaled and half-laughed. And tried to ignore in vain Wilson staring at him in slack-jawed amazement.

"Did you fight?"

House laughed again, a hollow sound that send chills racing up Wilson's spine.

"I guess. Brian found out about the roll in the hay. I didn't realize it was relevant. It was while we were still in Michigan. Juniors. Hell, I even remember the day, because Alia and Brian had fought on their six-month anniversary, and Brian broke up with her. And of course, ten minutes later, I get the phone call. And the floodgates." Another sigh. Another gulp.

"So I bring over a bottle of tequila, because Alia Khan never drank to enjoy the drink, she drank to get drunk. In the rare occasions when she felt that she needed to... escape."

"And you got drunk." He looked at Wilson, deciding to humor him with the details.

"No, no, not just drunk, Jimmy-boy. _Shitfaced._"

"Ah."

"Yeah. And giggling, and crying, and hiccuping, Alia tells me that Brian was jealous of me. That he wasn't privy to half the things I was. It's stupid, I know. I think I realized it then too, because we start laughing hysterically... and the next thing you know, I'm waking up next to my best friend on the living room carpet. Naked."

"How'd he find out?"

"Brian was a spineless, insecure, jealous, petty, _coward._ He probably imagined this whole scenario in his head and it just happened to be true. I still didn't think it was relevant... I mean, they were broken up. I wasn't being callous, deliberately or otherwise. Not like with Crandall. I mean, I _cared,_ you know? I might have even loved her, if I'd gotten the chance. But no, Brian comes back, he grovels, and Alia Khan is nothing if not gracious. Next thing I know, her father disowns and disinherits here for marrying an American, and she's asking _me_ to give her away at her wedding."

His words have long been drawn out, like those of the articulate drunk. Greg House prides himself on retaining the power of speech while otherwise... intoxicated. Even if his inhibitions take a running jump.

"Oh, House," Wilson started.

"Save it, Jimmy." The voice rings harsh, then softens again. "Really. Nothing happened. I was happy to still have her, and even happier that she was determined to keep me. And involve me in the kid's life." He laughed again, eyes bugging out incredulously.

"_I was changing diapers,_ Wilson. I loved, _love_ that kid. Sairah and Alia were the closest thing to an actual family that I had. Then I met Stacy, and she moved in a week later, and I thought, hey. What does it matter if I turned into a sap? I was happy, for the first time in my life."

"And then he found out," Wilson prompted once again.

"Yeah."

"And?"

"Sairah was days away from being eleven. Almost fourteen years ago. He thew me out. And took them somewhere, and moved to wherever." His gaze shifted to the ceiling as his head lolled back.

"I was an asshole. Ask Stacy. Suddenly, out of nowhere, my..." He cleared his throat.

"I'd given up, after those first few months." Another huff of drunken, sardonic laughter. "I don't know what happened in between. I don't know where her parents are, I don't even know if they're _alive_. Do you know?" His head popped up to look at Wilson.

"She looks just like her. When I saw her, that day in the elevator... I felt thirty years younger, because it was like Alia Khan was looking back at me. That's how she looked in med school. And every time I see her... _God,_ Wilson. It's like being in a time warp. And she comes back, all sad-eyes, and doesn't want to tell me anything."

His head lolled back again to rest on the couch.

"I'm sorry, House." He sighed, weary and tired.

"Didn't we already have this conversation?"

"No...I hate that I was jealous." House's head snapped up again, eyes widening.

"What?"

"You're going to make me say it again, aren't you? Fine. Yes, I was jealous, and petty, and I wanted sole custody back." House half-smiled at him, eyes suddenly softening.

"Hungry?"

"Eh."

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Miles away, a grinning Sairah Khan ran a hand over the beauty below her. Tearing her admiring gaze away, she turned to the man beside her.

"Sold."

"Fabulous."

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Robert Chase had a routine. He didn't seem like a man who followed one, much less depended on it, but he did. He had a routine. Even during his hectic, unpredictable days as House's fellow, he still had a routine.

Get up. Get out of bed. Brush teeth. Shower, contemplate eating. Get to work. Work. Eat. Sleep, if necessary. Come home. Eat. Sleep. Occasionally entertain "lady friend."

Of course, the last part almost entirely vanished after he and Cameron started their.. _thing._ Her confident, careless proposition, his acceptance... and the whole Tuesday charade. He laughs whenever he thinks of it, ignoring the humiliating wince of pain in his chest. He thought of it again as he stepped out of what felt like his _billionth_ appendectomy, trying to quell a wave of irritation. _If we'd just let the idiots die, then natural selection would get the hint._

He stopped and blinked. Good God, he was turning into House. Shaking his head, he nodded to Wilson, who smiled back as they passed each other on the surgical floor. He ended up in the lobby, staring at the clinic doors and mentally cursing the heavens. House was standing next to him, waving a folder at him, _ordering_ _him_ to cut up whatever. He had lost all interest in anything by that time... and it was only Monday.

He resumed cursing.

House was asking him to supervise a transplant, and trying to be nice about it, he noticed. Surprised, he found himself nodding. It was irritating and flattering at the same time how he depended on him and his skills. And how his status was reduced to surgical errand boy, no matter how cool the surgeries are.

At the roar of a motorcycle engine, his head automatically snapped up from the folder to look at House in confusion. He saw Cameron from the corner of his eye stop on her way to the elevators and raise her eyebrows at House.

House had taken two curious steps toward the door, as had Cameron, staying carefully on the other side of the nurse's station. Chase's jaw, as well as House's dropped as a brand new, shiny, red Kawasaki pulled up into the second row. The graceful, lithe rider dismounted, clad in dark jeans, black leather riding boots, and a white Oxford shirt. Their eyes widened as the helmet was taken off, the owner shaking her straight black hair out.

Sairah Khan could not stop the devilish grin that graced her features as she looked straight ahead and all but _strutted_ in, kid-gloved hands on the strap of the leather satchel on her back.

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Cameron was smiling as Sairah made it to the elevators without looking at any of them, hips obviously swaying. For whose benefit, she would never know. She started when she heard a deep belly laugh escape House. Her knees threatened to fail her as he genuinely smiled and laughed, shaking his head at the floor amusement. She felt light-headed as she looked at the blue eyes that were now sparkling. Still chuckling to himself, he walked to the elevators, and hit the button twice with his cane.

At the last minute, something possessed her to turn, and answer Hadley's frantic call for a consult right then. She speed walked to the elevators, lifting a hand to signal to House. A cane shot out and stopped it, as she smiled at him and entered.

He was still smiling.

"Thirteen call you?"

"Yeah. It looks immuno-related."

"It's always immuno-related, Cameron." His voice took on a remarkably different tone as he was still smiling. He shot her a glance when the elevator skipped the fourth floor, and they waited for the sixth. Sairah had just moved into her new office on the 6th floor, part of which would officially become OB/NN, the other part a gynecology clinic. The elevator dinged again, and he stepped forward, turning to face her with a hand on the door.

"Wanna come with?"

She smiled at him.

"Sure."

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Sairah bobbed her head to music nobody could hear, one hip on the desk, and one hand on her mug and the other holding a file. She didn't process a word the file said, instead counting in her head.

_Seven, six, five, four, three, two... oh, here we go._

She grinned at her file, watching from a corner of her eye as Allison enter her office. The sound of her godfather's laugh floated in before him.

Sairah looked up, and chuckling at his attempt to think up the perfect opener until Allison cut in.

"I never thought I'd see the day when Gregory House was struck speechless," she quipped.

Now she really laughed. "Do you like him?" Greg's head snapped up.

"_Him?" _He laughed again, deep belly laugh that seemed to go on and on. He walked up to her and put his hand on her head, stooping to kiss her temple.

"It's red."

"Well, _duh."_

"Cuddy saw you, you know," Allison said, much to Sairah's delight.

"Fab. Might as well know what she got herself into," she said, smiling at the other woman. Greg had made himself at home on her chocolate brown love seat when Wilson announced his presence.

"I thought I'd find you here," he said to Greg. "I need a consult, House. And Cuddy wants you, Cameron."

"Good morning, Dr. Wilson," she nodded at his retreating form. He suddenly stopped in his tracks, spinning his heel to face Sairah.

"You," he said, pointing at her.

Sairah's eyes widened, brows creasing.

"_You_, my dear, can call me James." Sairah graced him with her trademark 100-watt grin as she walked up to him and accepted his arm.

"You know, James, this maybe the beginning of a beautiful friendship," she quipped, smiling at Greg and Allison's baffled stares as she waltzed out of her office on Wilson's arm.

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**Reviewwwww!**


	10. Many the Miles

A/N: I know, it's been FOREVER. My apologies. My thanks to all readers/reviewers/silent subscribers. I don't know if I can call her a beta, but my thanks to iyimgrace (who also deserves credit for the last couple sentences) for providing encouragement, inspiration, and writer's-block therapy. Cheers!

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Sairah had to change out of the cool riding gear, much to her disappointment. But she entered the conference room on the fifth floor, in a red silk blouse, dark gray slacks and flats. Fifteen minutes early. The OBNN department was going to have its first meeting, along with her formal introduction to the board by Dr. Cuddy. After inspecting her nails and going over the file in front of her for the millionth time, the door suddenly burst open.

Dr. Cuddy strode in, and the rest of the members filed in after her. Sairah remained standing until gestured to do otherwise by Dr. Wilson.

She scanned the room, mentally identifying every member of the board and the department, trying to fight off a smile as she recalled Greg's 'supplementary comments'.

James smiled at her, and Cuddy had come around to squeeze her shoulder and whisper in her ear.

"Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Sairah replied.

"You're going to do great," the older woman said, before clearing her throat and facing the people that had assembled.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Board and of the OB, NN, and GYN departments, we are here to meet our newest addition. You might have seen Dr. Sairah Khan around the hospital during the week she needed to find and settle into a place of residence..."

She tuned the older doctor out in favor of observing her new department. Sairah knew everybody's names after studying the personnel files James was kind enough to pull for her. She noticed a blond make a late entrance as Cuddy finished speaking and gestured her to stand. She cleared her throat.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, colleagues and superiors. My name is Sairah Khan. I graduated from Oxford University, and did my residency there as well, which is why I write with the seemingly erroneous use of vowels, some of you'll find. I'm a board certified gynecologist, and I have a double specialty in Neo-Natal Surgery, and High-Risk Obstetrics. I was hired to manage the obstetrics and neo-natal divisions, as well as help Dr. Brown in anything he needs overseeing the Women's Clinic and gynecology department. I look forward to familiarizing myself with all of you; my hope for this department is to turn it into a well-oiled machine that provides patients of any age with the care they deserve. Of course, if the rankings improve, then who would we be to complain?" She smiled at the room, taking the time to make eye contact with each of colleagues.

"My predecessor, I was informed, was not known for his stellar communication skills, and I want to make crystal clear that my door is open for those who wish to enter the war-zone that is my office right now." A sigh of relief escaped at the sight of smiles and chuckles. "Please, feel free to sound off. Many of you are my seniors, and I am more than humbled to be afforded the opportunity to work with everybody present. Everybody deserves a voice, as far as I'm concerned, and yours will be heard if and when you choose to use it. I hope I get the opportunity to converse at leisure with every one of you as well as see you in action. I very much look forward to working with you all. Thank you."

She smiled at the polite applause and stood as the Board members filed out, shaking each of their hands. The departmental meeting would start in ten minutes, Cuddy had informed the rest of her audience, who had dispersed. Wilson strode up to her and stuck his hand out.

Laughing, she shook his hand, kissed his cheek and sat on the table she was leaning on.

"Nicely done," Wilson told her as he joined her on the table.

"Thanks. Let's see if I survive everybody else," she replied.

"Why?"

"Greg showed me to the OB lounge right after my interview..."

"Ah," he nodded sagely, smiling at the huff of laughter.

"Yeah."

Remy Hadely was late. Remy Hadely's annoying boyfriend insisted on making her late. Remy Hadely had a patient.

Remy Had--

She shook herself. _Oh, balls to this,_ she thought as she jogged up the stairs. Pausing at the door that led her to the fourth floor, she tugged at her clothes, trying to de-wrinkle them some. Remy walked past the elevator, almost missing two tow-headed doctors walk into the same one. She did a double take, and smirked.

_Oh, to be a fly on the wall of that elevator._

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_

Robert Chase had his nose in a file when the elevator doors closed. _It'd be nice if I know a little something about Mr. Gallstones,_ he thought, _before I spend an hour…_

… wasting his time at the OB/NN/GYN departmental staff meeting that started in fifteen minutes. Why was he going?

_No clue._

A nervous clearing of the throat did nothing to break his concentration. That was accomplished by a wave of a familiar smell: metal, fatigue, assorted body fluids... and lavender.

His head snapped up to see an uncomfortable Allison Cameron, leaning against the other side of the—_shit._ — otherwise unoccupied elevator, studying the glowing buttons with interest.

He cleared _his_ throat.

"Hi."

She turned towards him, eyes… _guilty?_ He watched her expand, taking a fortifying breath.

"Hey, Chase." He cringed inwardly.

_Hey, Chase. _

_Hey, Cameron. _

_Hey, Foreman. House in yet?_

One of the things that irritated him the most about their relationship was her inability to call him by his fucking name. Chase laughed to himself. A commitment-phobic woman… he never thought that would happen. His eyes darkened, as he remembered her dumbstruck expression in the lobby the other day. When House…

_No, not commitment phobic. She's just not with the right person. _

They had a fight before going on a vacation a couple of months ago… when she stayed back to work with House. That was when he realized… if she meant it when she said that it was not about their ex-boss, he knew. He knew, even when he kneeled in front of her, taking her hand. He knew when she laughed and cried and said yes.

She might have been… but he wasn't The One.

The impulse to fill the awkward silence broke his reverie.

"So…"

"So…"

Nervous laughter.

He extended his hand.

"Ladies first."

"Chase…" she started. As if she heard him before, the form of address changed. "Rob."

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House was pacing the lab, occasionally stopping to check Thirteen's cultures. _Damn. Damn!_ He could feel the answer at the forefront of his brain, just waiting to come out… but something was stopping him.

And if his subconscious is stopping him, then he must definitely be missing something.

_Damn!_

"Let's take this party outside, kids." He started towards the door. "Daddy needs some air."

They were making their way towards the lobby when Wilson came out of the clinic. What stopped House from greeting him as normal was the sudden reappearance of the green tie. House gaped. _The_ green tie. The _green_ tie.

He had stopped in the middle of the hallway, nearly avoiding a comical collision with the fellows; he stood stock still, mouth slightly parted, eyes wide.

Sairah was following him out of the clinic, hand on his arm, laughing at something that was apparently in the file that she held. Wilson had a huge smile on his face, blissfully oblivious to the whispering that had already started. Wilson turned to her, saying something, evidently taking his leave. Sai headed towards the nurse's station to talk to Brenda, who had beckoned her over. House's eyes narrowed, as Wilson walked towards him.

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"Take five," he barked, without turning to his fellows.

He strode up to Wilson and jovially put an arm around him, leading him to the elevators.

"I'm so, so…" she paused. A huff of sardonic laughter escaped. "I don't think that my apologizing to you will fix anything. It won't, I know that. But you should know that I am sorry. Incredibly sorry. I wanted a no-strings attached, casual relationship, and when I proposed to take it further, I really thought I was ready. I really thought, that the flippancy and levity that I treated our relationship before was a sign of maturing, of growing out of my insecurities and fears about relationships. You deserve much, much better than just a drawer, Rob. I wouldn't go so far as to propose friendship, but you're a wonderful man and a great surgeon, and an important part of my life." She took a deep breath as the elevator stopped. Walking up to him, she kissed his cheek. And walked out, looking straight ahead.

She wouldn't know she left a gaping Chase behind her, shell-shocked by her mirror-rehearsed speech.

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House's frown deepened as he watched Cameron coming from the other set of elevators, swiping at her eyes. Her almost collision with a fluoroscope was nearly enough to distract him from the mission at hand.

_Right._

"Interesting day at the clinic?"

He dragged Wilson, still flustered from the sudden ambush, over to the elevators. Pressing the button so that no one else would get a chance to get in, he turned to his best friend, cutting off his reply.

"Is that it? Amber-mourning period over?"

_"What?"_

"I mean, I knew, intellectually, that you couldn't keep it in your pants, but seriously."

"What the hell are you talking about? If this guerilla attack conversation could even be considered talking."

"Oh, _snap_."

"What is your problem?" An exasperated Wilson had his hands on his hips.

"You, Wilson. I will say this once, and once only. Stay away from her. Maintain a ten yard distance. No foreign film festivals, no Hitchcock marathons, no… whatever it is that you two do."

"Who? What? Hitchcock…"

"Sairah. Sairah Kathleen R.." He coughed. "… Khan. You know, female of Eastern European and Asian origin, five foot seven, shoulder-length black hair, doctor to parasites and their hosts. Sai. Who you will stay far, far away from. Little Jimmy will not be making his rounds near _my _goddaughter, do you hear me?"

The elevator doors opened at the fourth floor again, leaving House to stride to his office.

_"Little?"_

_------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
_

House stopped.

_Little. _

He yanked his phone out to call Foreman, just as the parents of his patient entered his line of sight.

"Call whoever's on call at Endocrinology. Call Cuddy, too, just in case." _Pause._ "We need somebody to confirm Hypopituitary Dwarfism."

They had been poking and prodding a newly adopted two year old, brought into the clinic the previous day by his new parents concerned with his growth. House, in his usual style had whisked his one-way ticket out of Dante's eleventh Circle of Hell, and started his usual battery of tests.

He saw Foreman walking towards him. Ah… he always loved demonstrating his genius.

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She didn't know why she stayed so late. She could have just gone home, gone to bed, and watched Will and Grace re-runs with her trusty friends, Ben and Jerry.

But now, at 10:00 pm, Sairah Khan was pacing the NICU, anxiously monitoring her first-ever Harlequin baby.

_Damn!_

A sickly looking baby girl was born the previous day with obvious symptoms of respiratory distress, rigid lips, and disturbingly yellow skin. As soon as her departmental meeting was over, she had just stepped out of the conference room when one of her residents paged a 911.

The hysterical mother took hours to calm, and it fell upon Sairah to explain to her that while it wasn't jaundice, it was something much, much worse.

She sighed, whipping out her cell phone. And promptly put it back. Whereupon she took it out again. And put it back. After a minute of contemplation, she pulled it out again, stepping outside to dial the numbers.

Sairah waited for the phone to finish ringing, and the message-less beep to follow.

"Just ringing to see if you're up. I'm still here, monitoring a patient— a harlequin fetus was born yesterday…" _Click_.

The gruff voice was music to her ears.

"Prognosis?"

"18 max."

"I have ginger, but you're gonna have to bring the tea."

She sighed again, quite explosively. "Thank you."

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Later, as she was sprawled on Greg's couch, nursing a cup of strong _chai_, listening to the story of how he and Wilson met, something struck her. "I have a question."

"I might not want to answer."

"Did you say something to James yesterday? I saw him in the clinic today, and he didn't even look at me. It's like he saw me coming, and left."

"Of course I said something. He's my best friend. We say stuff to each other all the time. We Americans call it _talking_."

"Oh, stop it, Greg. We were talking, too, James and I. Not having kinky sex on the exam tables—" A cookie to the face interrupted her. And dramatic gagging sounds.

"And besides," she continued, "Whether I was or not, I'm a big girl now, PG, so it's none of your business."

"It is _so_ my business, when I see Dr. Panty Peeler putting the moves my godkid. I mean, God, talk about cradle-robbing…."

"Isn't it the same difference between you and Allison?" Sairah giggled at the sight of chai being sprayed all over the coffee table.


	11. Imagine Me and You

They liked to pace, he mused. House _had_ to pace when the monstrosity that is his thigh cracked down, and Sairah… that's how she thinks, it seems.

It amused him to no end, this similarity. Wilson was standing at Sairah's doorway, as she was working through the floorboards, oblivious to his presence. The constant recitation of "damn!" seemed to be necessary too. Barely suppressing a chuckle, he strode up to her and stopped her.

"Cuddy doesn't want to pay for new flooring AND House's lawyers," he told her. He smiled back when she rolled her eyes at him, marveling at the level of comfort that they had reached in such a short time.

She placed her hands on his hands, moving them away from her shoulders.

"I need to _think_, James. This is how I think. I pace."

"What you need is sugar." She narrowed her eyes at him.

"What I need to do is not screw up the quad delivery tomorrow. Which is why I need to make sure I'm completely prepared. And that cannot be done when you're _distracting me!_" She pushed him out of the door.

"Come on... this works for House all the time. Eat some gelato. Or some sorbet. Or better yet, a cupcake. Nothing beats sugar-induced confidence." He grinned at the beginnings of acquiescence.

"That gelato better be bloody good, Wilson."

"There's also chocolate mousse."

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House watched them walk to the elevators, shaking his head at Wilson's back.

_Smooth operator, my ass. All I wanted you to do is distract her, Wilson, not bust a fucking move._

He snapped open his cell phone, and hit speed dial 2.

"Make sure that she doesn't have her purse, Wilson."

"Patient's stable, Patricia."

"Nice acting."

"I try my best."

"No keys in the pocket, no cell phone, not even spare change, do you understand me?"

"What did you want me to do, frisk her? Patient has been detoxed, for what it's worth."

"Great."

"See y.." He was cut off.

"You remember what I said, don't you?"

"_Hou..._"

"Keep it in your pants."

_Click._

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While Wilson dragged his goddaughter to the Bent Spoon, House snuck into her office.

He was going through her purse in the semi-darkness when all the lights were suddenly turned on.

"Tell me you're not going through her things." House looked up, startled.

"I'm not going through her things."

"Why is your hand in her purse, House?"

"I need her keys."

"She doesn't have a spare?" He smirked at the question. Not long ago she would have asked him why he needed the keys.

"She hasn't had the time."

"Okay…" The two syllables were dragged out as Allison Cameron walked towards him and propped a scrub-covered hip on the desk.

"Listen. It's five o'clock, which means I have exactly fifteen minutes to get her keys and go to her place, and wait for Lenny. You're not helping." Rolling her eyes, she held her hand out and wiggled her fingers.

It didn't even take a second for her to find the keys attached to a tube of lip balm and a mini flashlight.

"Thank you…" He saw her eyes widen. "What, is it that unthinkable that I thank you?"

"Uh... _yes?"_ He smirked again.

"Wanna come with?" She sighed.

"Why the hell not."

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She didn't realize how much she had missed it. Riding on his bike was something she had only experienced once, but that time was forever imprinted in her mind. But now, she couldn't stop the sudden grin as he once more yanked her already willing arms around his middle. She was resting her forehead against his back when he handed her the helmet.

"You really should be the one wearing the helmet," she mumbled.

"I left the spare in my other pants."

"Oh, snap?" She ventured.

He chuckled as he started the bike, casting a longing look at the Kawasaki gleaming a few rows down as they maneuvered out of the parking lot.

Something occurred to her.

"Who's Lenny?"

"What?"

"_Who's Lenny?"_

"Wait till we get there, Cameron!"

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They pulled into the spot directly facing Sairah's living room window. Neither of them wanted to let go, it seemed. The feeling of Cameron's arms wrapped around him and the pleasant warmth against his back was one he was reluctant to lose. He winced inwardly.

_Come on, House. Snap out of it._

"Cameron." His voice had taken on a surreally gentle quality as he moved a shoulder in an effort to nudge her.

"Cameron."

He gingerly pried the arms from his waist, cringing at the rush of seemingly cold air against his lower back.

Before he got a chance to turn around, Cameron straightened, obviously awake.

His chest tightened just a fraction, looking at the heavy-lidded eyes and lazy smirk.

He wanted to comment about the level of her fatigue if ten minutes on the bike put her to sleep. He wanted to brush the errant lock of blonde hair away from her eyebrow. He wanted to trace the pad of his thumb along the faint scar on her cheekbone he knew was from a bicycle accident. He wanted to yank her arms around him again, envelop himself in the delicious cocoon of Cameron that he had come to—

He blinked.

_What the fuck?_

Cursing his treacherous subconscious and its ridiculous notions, he quickly dismounted.

"Come on, then. Lenny should be here."

"Which leads me to ask again, who's Lenny?"

"Leonard Mason is the now owner of a very prestigious family-owned company that makes pianos." He fiddled with Sairah's lock. "Of course, this was before Yamaha bought them over…"

He stepped inside; warm, jasmine scented air greeting the pair of them.

"Why are you getting her a piano?" He smiled again.

"She's turning twenty five in a few days." He watched as Cameron's face broke out in a grin both at his words and the picture on the little table by the door. Quirking his eyebrow, he waited until she brought him the frame.

A twenty five year old House, grandly bedecked in a paper birthday hat, had his face scrunched tightly against a tiny hand holding a glob of what looked like cake icing to his nose. In the background was a laughing woman holding a casserole dish.

He struggled to breathe as he clutched the frame. Blue eyes slid slowly shut, only to snap open again at the sound of Cameron's voice.

"You're right," she said. After weeks of her unassuming nonchalance, after watching the easy friendship his former fellow struck with his goddaughter, House had finally relented a short time ago, and told Cameron about Sairah. Everything.

Strange, how he didn't need the aid of alcohol this time.

The strange compulsion to tell her struck him when she walked into his office a few days ago and threw herself at his yellow armchair, and asked him if he wanted some coffee.

"She does look like her mother," Cameron finished.

"Yeah," he rasped.

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They had waited for the mysterious Lenny, for five, ten, fifteen minutes before House's cell phone rang.

Cameron was shocked at the sudden emergence of self-restraint as House stopped himself from yelling at Lenny for the sudden cancellation and instead proceeded to do the man's job for him. He walked around Sairah's living room, making rough measurements by pointing his cane at the walls. Cameron couldn't hold back a smile at the sight of House limping through the apartment, muttering as he did the mental calculations.

_How sweet._

"You want something to drink?" She called out.

"She's not going to have alcohol," was the reply. She rolled her eyes as she eyed the sparse cabinets.

"There should be a jug of iced tea in the fridge!" He shouted back.

She took out a giant plastic gallon jug from the fridge, filled with appetizingly dark liquid and thick slices of lemon.

Two glasses of iced tea were in her hand as she made her way back into the living room. Walking along the mantle above the fireplace, she looked at the pictures displayed there.

Intrigued, she set the glasses down on a nearby table and walked closer to inspect.

Besides the picture they were just looking at, there was one of him at a piano with a little girl perched next to him. His mouth was open, and he was turned towards her, both of them oblivious to the presence of the camera. There was another one with an older Sairah standing next to her mother holding a rolled up piece paper with a—

Her thoughts came to a crashing halt as she felt the warmth at her back.

House said nothing, but Cameron saw a hand come up to grip the mantle beside her. The other hand followed momentarily, and distantly, she heard the clatter of cane against floor.

Cameron turned, very slowly, in the intimidating circle of House's arms and faced him. His breathing was almost imperceptibly fast, and as he leaned against the mantle, stretching his back, Cameron felt hers quicken as well.

"What are you doing?" The question came out in a low whimper that, two seconds later, Cameron realized came from her. Her nostrils filled with the clean, citrusy scent of his skin, and the proximity made her head spin.

"Honestly…" he began.

She was immediately seized by an irrational need to smile. Greg House… _honest?_

Her thoughts must have shown on her face because the corner of his mouth twitched in shy amusement.

"I really don't know." The display of husky vulnerability made her knees weak, but her hand didn't seem to have that problem. The knuckles of her right hand scraped along his jaw and her voice dipped an octave.

"That makes two of us."

Warm breath caressed her face as a huff of laughter escaped his mouth. The very same, very perfect mouth that she was staring at like a dog would stare at a fresh cut steak. It should have been embarrassing when House shot her a pointed look, but she could only smile weakly, and swallow the saliva that had pooled in her mouth. Every fiber of her being was screaming for contact, and the image of him, her, and the damn needle kept flashing in front of her eyes, teasing her with memories of their previous kiss.

"Um.."

"I.."

House spoke. And when he did, the shocking openness in his eyes made Cameron dig her nails further into the palm of her left hand.

"I don't want to hurt you, Cameron."

"So don't."

"You know it's not as simple as that."

"As a matter of fact, I do."

"I will, though."

"What?"

"Hurt you."

"Do your worst, House."

And at that, he leaned into his grip on the mantle until his nose was just millimeters away from hers.

"You really shouldn't give me an opening like that."

"Well," she said, extricating her nails from the soft flesh of her palm to cup the side of his face, right hand already curled around his neck, "Let's see what you do with it."

It was as if every was taking place in slow motion: the brief appearance of House's tongue when he licked his lips, the opening and closing of Cameron's eyes, and the flex of his biceps when he leaned in impossibly further. It felt like minutes, hours, days, months… _years_ had gone by before Cameron curled her hands around his neck and closed what little distance there was between them.

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It was _glorious._

Satisfied that her hands weren't slipping down to bring out a needle, House leaned further into Cameron's embrace, slowly relaxing his grip on the mantle and curling his hands around her hips.

His whole universe was awash with sensation, the slide of a scrub clad shin along his, the friction of fingertips against his scalp, the nails scraping up his back, the pit of his stomach filling with an aching feeling that was almost too much.

As he found the hem of Cameron's scrub top and slid his hand inside, House wondered what the hell took them so long.

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She was going to kill him. _James sodding Wilson was going to be impaled on a long, rusty, metal pole in the middle of the lobby. _And she was going to sell tickets.

Sairah strode across the lobby, irritation blinding her to the surroundings. If she hadn't _caved,_ like someone on "The Biggest Loser" at the thought of gelato, then she wouldn't have missed the early arrival of Guadalupe, or "Quad-mom", as the scrub nurses had dubbed her. If she hadn't missed the arrival, she would have had the opportunity to yell at the consulting neurosurgeon that little Carlos _did_ need a shunt in his brain. She would have caught the department head of Cardio that she liked before he left for his organ harvest to repair Juanita's valve.

Instead, she had gone home at seven, full, and relaxed. She definitely didn't expect that her patient would go into labor _before_ her scheduled c-section, at barely thirty three weeks, much less the fact that her nurses would call her only a full forty minutes later, at nine o'clock.

Sairah had almost put in the shunt that was to go into Carlos herself, before the equally irritated neurosurgeon was called back in from a meeting. Of course, she didn't waste any OR time chewing out the nurses. Not when Elizabeth needed steroids to develop her lungs, and Juanita needed cardiothoracic intervention.

At around half five in the morning, she made it out of the patients' room, after placating the new parents, and monitoring little Raquel, who seemed almost suspiciously healthy.

It was then that the fifteen OB nurses on call were subjected to fifteen minutes of her cool, flat voice, and impressive vocabulary.

Finally, at about six, after making early rounds in the NICU and the maternity ward, her patience snapped at the, in retrospect, relatively valid question that a foolhardy intern had posed. And she, in an effort to avoid bloodshed, had instructed the attending at her side to take over, pivoted on one flat shoe and stormed out.

Striding through the lobby after that, she had successfully figured out what, or more importantly who, was the cause of the morning from hell.

She strode so much that, after ten straight minutes of fuming, she found herself making her traditional coffee walk. Greg had mocked her relentlessly when he found out that she walked to Starbucks every day, but she held a steadfast belief that, if she was going to eat a brownie every day with coffee, she was going to burn some calories in preparation by walking a mile to the store.

Hurrying inside, and failing to suppress a smile at the obvious lack of line, she walked to stand behind a blond man in a dark plaid shirt.

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Usually, at six thirty in the morning, he was one of the only customers; the early shifters came in at five, and the regular people came in at seven or seven thirty.

But he liked to take his time, and spend an hour in Starbucks doing his crossword, sipping coffee. It was the next best thing to lounging in the conference room for two hours every morning.

Chase turned around at the sudden appearance of another customer.

Smiling, he nodded to the other doctor.

"Good morning, Dr. Khan." His smile widened at her wry half smirk and the barely suppressed sigh in her voice.

"Good morning, Dr. Chase," she replied, briefly straightening up to greet him before settling back into a slouch.

It's not because she's the same age, or the same position as him, but in that instant, he suddenly felt a rush of warm camaraderie for this woman standing in front of him.

He stepped closer, and his senses were suddenly jarred by the familiar smell of metal, the sigh, and the swollen eyes, but on dark hair and olive skin.

Fueled by said rush of warm camaraderie, he smiled some more.

"Rob," he intoned. Nobody called him Dr. Chase. Even after three years, he has to hold himself back from looking around for his father every time somebody referred to him that way.

"Sairah," she replied.

At the voice of the barista, he turned and ordered his usual venti cappuccino. But when another appeared to take Sairah's order, something shifted in his veins. And as usual, his mouth lost all communication with his brain.

"She's with me," he told her, much to Sairah's obvious surprise.

"That's really not necessary," she protested.

"My pleasure," he said, and sensing discomfort, he threw in a "please."

And when she smiled at him, that something shifted again, prompting him to sweep a hand out in a mocking bow and intoning, "My lady."

He didn't expect her to attempt a giggle and reply, "Kind sir," before stepping up to the register.

"Venti quad skinny white mocha, no whip," she told the barista, and even though his Australian accent was as thick as ever, the jargon sounded strange coming from a mouth that he expected to ask for tea.

"Rough day?"

She smiled again, twinkling eyes strangely reminiscent of House.

"Don't ask."

He nodded toward his usual table when the coffees were ready, and started slightly when she followed, surprised.

And even though he had a hunch, he asked her anyway: "Genetic neurological disorder that presents with skin blistering, and types of hyper and hypopigmentation, original Latin name. First word, thirteen letters."

He watched, smirking, as she carefully put down her coffee with an endearing reluctance. Folding her hands in her lap, and she let her head hit the table with a _thud _that spoke of a long night buried elbow-deep in amniotic fluid, and numerous hours of crying babies.

_She probably doesn't know the answer, _he reasoned.

"Incontinetia."

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	12. Gravity

Images from the night before were playing on a loop in Cameron's head as she walked into the ER at seven in the morning. A smile played on her face, a glaring contradiction to the frown between her eyebrows, but the situation was complicated.

She kissed House.

_She_ kissed House.

She _kissed_ House.

She kissed _House_.

Cameron stopped near the nurse's station, and shook herself. She didn't succeed, of course, and went right back to thinking. As she contemplated, analyzed and deduced, she reached the locker room on autopilot.

She picked out a pair of scrubs, and changed into them in preparation for her unusually late shift; she usually came in at six… not that she was complaining, but she could have come in early anyway— it's not like she slept much.

As she sutured, as she shocked, as she wrote and signed and barked orders, she still couldn't help but smile. Guilty as it made her feel, how many times had she pictured them kiss? After that fateful first time, after she told herself it was for his own good, after she almost threw herself into the bottomless pit that was Greg House, she had wondered, time and time again, how it would feel like to kiss him again.

It was good.

_No it wasn't_, the voice in her head quipped. _It was glorious._

A smile broke out on her face and reached her faraway eyes as the clock struck ten. She told a nurse she was taking a break, and mindlessly walked to the elevators for no reason and got off at the first stop.

Before she knew what she was doing, she was walking toward House's office. Her mind was still focusing on his eyes as he told her that he didn't want to hurt her… she stopped as soon as the glass domain came into view, and spun on her heel to turn around, just in time to see Sairah chuckling at her from down the hallway.

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Sairah continued laughing, delight suddenly replacing her exhaustion.

"Do I want to know?" she asked, walking to Allison.

Allison rolled her eyes at her. Consult temporarily forgotten, Sairah shook her head.

"Lunch?" she inquired.

"Noonish," Allison replied, not breaking her stride. The two women smiled at one another and continued to walk their separate ways; Sairah to said glass domain, and Allison back toward the elevators.

The team was deep into their differential as Sairah waited outside the door, waiting for permission. Greg was alerted to her presence when Remy looked outside to find her still smiling, and smiled back. He waved her in impatiently.

"Manners are not allowed in here," he told her, before limping back to the white board.

"You know what they say," she started, smiling at Foreman and swiping the red mug from the corner of the table. "You can take the girl out of England…"

She took a swig and made a face. _Oh well_, she thought, _it was bitter and disgusting, but it was still coffee._

Taub rolled his eyes at the scene and began briefing her in a bored voice. As soon as she heard the word "infant", she immediately put a hand up to stop the discussion.

"When was he admitted?" she asked, referring to the two-month-old baby.

"Came into the ER at six-oh-five this morning, Peterson admitted him into the NICU at seven." Foreman replied.

"Then I'll probably see him in afternoon rounds. I'll need to see him and examine him myself before I can offer any real consultation," she began, but was silenced by Greg reaching over to reclaim his mug. She made a face and continued.

"I'll be there in a bit." She looked at Greg for a split second. At Taub's irritated sigh, she added, "Ninety minutes at the most, Dr. Taub. I have to pay Neurology a visit, and discharge a patient. I promise."

"Yeah, yeah, go check him out. I'll still be here," he told her, and Sairah didn't miss the elevation of Taub's eyebrows as Greg made his way into his office.

She followed him into his office, shutting the door with her back.

"_Felicitaciones,"_ she offered, smirking wildly. Greg's eyebrows flew into his hairline as he hooked his cane on the desk and sat down.

"I don't know for what, but _gracias_," he said.

"Nonsense. The sooner you admit to my omniscience, the better off you are," she replied, voice as dry as the desert. She walked toward his desk, face softening as she thought of Allison. She was the first friend she made in the hospital, and it always amazed her how well they got on. She smiled, thinking of the smile around her friend's lips, and the faraway expression in her eyes. This was the closest she had seen Allison get to something resembling happiness, and she, in turn, was happy for her.

"It sounds unbelievable, but Allison is my first actual female friend. We get on like a house on fire, and her happiness means quite a bit to me," she started, leaning against the desk to face him. "So, whatever you did, high five," she said, extending her palm with a smile.

He slapped palms with her with a roll of his eyes.

"Still don't know what you're talking about," he told her, twinkling eyes betraying his words. Smiling, she got up and squeezed his shoulder.

"Whatever you say, PG."

She walked out of his office, smiling at Remy as she strode past the conference room, and at Foreman's eye roll, she wiggled her fingers at him in mocking goodbye.

The spring in her step and the general good cheer that emanated from her was more or less intact through the consult on a heavily pregnant woman with an aneurysm, the visit with Guadalupe and her children, and the official discharge of little Raquel. It promptly faded, however, as she approached her newest patient's crib.

His mother was leaning over it, stroking his head, body held at an awkward angle as she struggled to reach him without ripping her stitches. As she got closer, she was beginning to wish that she had let Taub finish briefing her.

The white bandages stood out in harsh contrast with the blue sheets on his crib, and when she approached the woman, she noticed just how much of the tiny body was covered in gauze.

"Mrs. Kostas," Sairah called out softly. The woman in question raised her head and a wave of nausea flooded Sairah's gut as she struggled to stand her ground. She took the chart from the edge and started studying it.

"You must be my Chris' new doctor," she said, crooning to the baby asleep in the white crib. "The black man told me another woman would be visiting," she whispered, as she shuffled back to the rocking chair at the foot of the bed. "You look Greek, _pedi mou_. Are you?"

"No," Sairah whispered, before shaking herself. "How are you feeling, Mrs. Kostas?"

"Please, child," the woman rasped, "call me Dimitra, and I'm fine. It's only been a month…" her voice faded. "I'm sorry, I'm much more charming when I'm not recovering from delivery, and my baby's not recovering from first degree burns." she finished, wan smile shifting her features.

Sairah's tightly sealed lips stretched in reply as she sucked in a fortifying breath.

"Mrs. … er, Dimitra, why don't you go to your room to get some sleep while I examine Chris," she started, before the woman's shrill voice cut her off.

"No! I'm not leaving my child alone!"

"Okay," Sairah spoke softly in an effort to soothe without moving forward. "Okay, you don't have to go anywhere. But you're going to rip your stitches in that position; at least let one of the nurses get you a cot."

The sheer amount of effort it took Sairah to convince the woman to let her examine the baby left Sairah breathless. She asked Dimitra question upon question about little Chris' condition and as she worked, sweat beaded around her unusually pale forehead.

She asked her about the fire; how the nursery and the guest room caught on fire, did she have an electrician coming to investigate the short circuit, has somebody from Plastics been by. She kept the woman talking as she unwrapped and re-wrapped the bandages. He had just stopped crying, one of the nurses informed her.

Sairah ran one gloved finger along the miniscule stretch of arm that wasn't covered and spoke softly over the sniveling, the abnormal thickness of her voice the only thing that betrayed her emotions.

"I know, love. I know it hurts."

Cold, slimy, nausea was still twisting in the pit of her stomach when she finished, told Dimitra she would be back, and all but flew out.

000

She was barely two feet out of the NICU when she collided with somebody in light green scrubs. Strong, warm hands encircled her shoulders and guided her to the nearest bench and gently pushed to sit her down.

"Are you okay?" the voice floated around her, and she shook her head.

"I need…" she started, gasping for breath, and before she could help herself, she mumbled an apology and ran for the bathroom two doors down.

It didn't require any effort at all. She stumbled into a stall, and with a heave, emptied her breakfast out into the toilet. Relief suffused her veins as the throbbing in her stomach lessened, and, she put out her hands and staggered to a sink. She washed her hands, rinsed her mouth out, and splashed some water on her face before going back outside. As soon as she saw him, she knew, it was him who had sat her down. A grimace that had started out as a smile graced her features as flattened her back against the wall and dropped her face in her hands.

"Are you okay?" he asked again.

"Fine," she replied, the response automatic. His eyes narrowed.

"No, you're not."

"It's fine. I'm fine." Her tone turned pleading.

"Sairah."

"I'm fine," she repeated, and this time, her tone had a sharp edge to it.

"I've had enough of those to recognize that for what it was," he started, and Sairah's eyes widened.

"Rob, please…really, I'm fine. Bad eggs this morning, that's all."

"There's no judgment here," he said, voice turning soft. She sagged against the wall, just in time for him to dart from his perch to the other side of the hallway...just in time to catch her.

"This never happened," she whispered hoarsely. "You weren't here." Chase's eyes softened in understanding, and he was suddenly struck by an overwhelming urge to gather her up in his arms and hold her till she was better. Blinking, he released her, and squeezed her shoulder.

"Of course."

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It was twelve fifteen before Allison finally gave up waiting and paged her lunch date, and when Sairah texted her with an apology and a request to get her lunch and come to her office, she just shrugged at the phone, and walked down the line, picking up a pannini for Sai as an afterthought.

It was when she saw Foreman, Thirteen, Taub, and House walking from the opposite side of the floor that she began to think that something was wrong.

House was saying something to his team, and when he turned around, his eyes clashed with Cameron's, and he stopped walking for a second before starting up again. Cameron smiled.

"So that's why she was late," she said, advancing towards the door. "You guys done with her so the poor girl can eat in peace?"

"She was supposed to come back after examining the patient," Foreman told her. Allison shook her head.

"So? Something must have come up. Somebody must have gone into labor."

"She would have paged," Thirteen added.

House looked at the ceiling, as if toplead for strength, and sighed.

"Maybe we should stop loitering outside her office and go in and find out," he snapped, although it was clear to Cameron that it wasn't directed at her.

They pushed their way in, and House uncharacteristically stood back to let everyone pass.

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She was on the phone, facing away from them.

And by the set of her shoulders, the hand on her forehead, and her oddly thick voice, House knew that something was wrong.

"Thank you," she told whoever she was talking to, and hung up. She whirled around when Taub cleared his throat pointedly from his left.

He almost involuntarily took a step forward at the sight of her. Her hair was slightly disheveled, he suspected, by her hand running through it; she was pale, her sleeves stained with sweat, and slightly green, but completely composed.

He winced, and turned around to the team.

"Go eat," he commanded, and rolled his eyes with relief when they understood that command to be code for _get out_, and started filing out of the room.

"Wait," Sairah said, and his fellows stopped and turned. "She needs a psych consult. Mrs. Kostas, the mother, needs a psych consult."

His eyes widened, and he turned around to catch Foreman's eyebrows rise. He inclined his head, which prompted an eye-roll.

Something possessed him to say yes.

"Good," she announced, turning towards the phone and picking it up. "Mrs. Clarke? Yes, they're on their way. Tell Dr. Milton I owe her one." She looked directly at Foreman. "Cate will be ready for you in ten minutes."

House didn't even take time to contemplate the return of the psychiatrist; he just went to her loveseat and made himself comfortable, gesturing at Cameron to take the bigger sofa. The team stood around awkwardly, just in front of the door.

"What do you think?" he asked her.

"Forget what I think, what I don't understand is why you have this case."

Taub answered. "That's what I said. This case needs you and someone from Plastics, but the mother wanted us to check the kid over."

House didn't think it was possible, but she got paler as the blood drained from her face. She took a deep breath. "There's an 80% chance that Chris will survive the burns, and so far, so good."

She finally made eye contact with him, and she broke it to look at her desk for a second. She raised her head and met his eyes.

"I know it sounds mental," she started. "But she _really_ needs a psych consult. Because I don't think it's just a new mother with discomfort and a newborn caught in a fire." She braced her hands on the desk and leaned forward, directing her words at him.

"She needs to be monitored at all times, there needs to be a person there _all the time_. Granted, I've no experience with this, but I can smell abuse from a mile away, Greg. Cate will only back me up on this, and…" Foreman cut her off.

"You think she has Munchhausen's? _By proxy?_ No way," he declared flatly. House watched, slack-jawed, as she straightened to her full height and her voice dipped dangerously.

"That's not what I said. I said she needs a psych consult. And when you go see Dr. Milton in a few minutes, she'll see her and give you her opinion. As far as the child is concerned, the treatment he's on is fine, but he needs continuous monitoring, and someone from Plastics." She looked at Foreman. "That's my professional opinion."

House smirked, turning to Foreman. "You heard her. Get the psych consult, and get someone to monitor the sprog."

As they shuffled out, he turned back to face his goddaughter.

"You okay, kid?" She came around and sat in the armchair across from his, accepting the sandwich Cameron passed her with a wan smile.

"I'm fine." He didn't buy it one bit, but he thought it wise not to raise any objections. Instead he changed topics.

"Didn't know Milton was back," he said, studiously ignoring Cameron's raised eyebrows.

"She is," Sairah replied, toying with her pannini.

Something occurred to him.

"You said you could smell it from a mile away," he started, looking in his pocket for his bottle of Vicodin, just barely missing her startled expression. "What the hell do you know about abuse?" he asked, tone light. He looked up to see something flicker in her eyes before she attempted to smile at him.

"No." Her voice sounded _dull_, and carried an eerie, hollow quality to it. "No. No, you're right, I don't."

He just got the feeling he just said something very wrong, and then—

The phone rang, effectively distracting House from his thought process. Sairah went to her desk, and when she hit a button, her secretary's voice echoed in the office.

"Dear, reception says someone is here to see you," she said, and Sairah's head dropped into her hand.

"Who, Pat?"

"I couldn't hear Brenda properly, dear, I'm sorry. Ross something. Or it might have been something Ross."

"Thank you, Pat," she began, and stopped, as if she had just registered the woman's words. She jumped at the sound of House's harsh exhalation and turned towards him.

"You two need to leave."

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	13. Kamikaze

**A/N: Thanks, as always, to the ever-lovely iyimgrace, and thank you, marvelous readers, for all your ego-boosting story alerts! I know, it was quite strange of me to update last time without an A/N, so...AllyCameron: yes, I know, I've been taking too long between updates, but that's about to change, for a bit, at least. Speaking of which, welcome to the first of my four parter: Chapters 13, 14, 15, and 16 will be the "Sink or Swim" series, which will cover a major shake-up in the lives of our characters. So, strap on your seatbelts, and enjoy!  
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"You two need to leave."

Her voice was hollow and emotionless, causing him to pause in the doorway.

Wilson didn't think she noticed his presence just inside the door, but the distracted glances sent his way told him House and Cameron did. He didn't fully realize the cause of Cameron's distress and House's wide eyes until Sairah turned to him. Her panic-filled eyes, pale features, and harsh breathing stood out in sharp contrast to her rigid posture and dull voice, and Wilson turned to House and raised his eyebrow.

She was looking at him, theoretically speaking, but the tiny hairs on the back of Wilson's neck stood on end as he realized that she still wasn't alerted to his presence. 

_It was almost as if she was looking through me._

The door creaked open as Foreman and Thirteen came in, and Wilson could pinpoint the exact moment that she realized she had more visitors, because her head whipped around to look at the door.

"Do you three need a special request?" The voice now had a familiar hard edge to it that sounded equally unfamiliar coming out of Sairah's mouth.

"Where have I heard that voice before?" mused House, and Wilson almost smiled before Sairah turned around to look at him.

_Whirled, more like._

She pointed to the door, and stared at every one in turn.

"I won't ask again." Her voice was low and she slowly spoke each word, as if to make sure that they all understood.

Not surprisingly, Cameron was the first to get up, and make short work of silently ushering them out of the door.

Surprisingly, though, once they got out, Cameron opened the door to the adjoining conference room that was still in construction. House, grinning, waved a hand towards the door, grin becoming a smirk as Foreman looked affronted at the thought of eavesdropping. Foreman turned around to leave, but Thirteen shrugged and walked in, and after a moment's contemplation, so did Wilson. Cameron had hung back near the door, and House rewarded her with a grin as she closed the door. He whispered to her, and she whispered back, and they smiled at each other.

It was turning out to be an eventful day.

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"I corrupted you," House declared quietly, smiling at Cameron. She snorted, turning from the door.

"Don't flatter yourself," she replied, and graced him with a smile of her own, along with an eye roll. They walked over to the windows that were parallel to the bay window on the side of Sairah's office, although the cluster of armchairs and the sofa obscured the view. House hoped that the rooms weren't soundproofed, because if the person he thought was coming _was_ coming, he wanted to listen in.

He turned around and got as close as possible to the window, much to Wilson's obvious chagrin, and stopped. She was fixing her hair by the reflection of the monitor, panic still painfully etched in her features. Taking deep breaths, she said something to herself. House was transfixed. He watched, slack-jawed, as she, for the second time in as many minutes, straightened to her full height, took a deep breath, and tipped her head up. A smile stole over his face as she sat back down, and moved her hands over her face and held them out in front of her, lips moving. She looked exactly like Alia did, minutes before an exam.

The smile faded as he saw the profile of her visitor in the open doorway. Sairah's expression was unreadable, and she remained seated.

The man stepped inside, looking around, and Sairah reclined in her chair, and smiled. Except that smile wasn't happy, at all. It was almost… _predatory_.

"Can I help you, sir? Are you lost?" House furrowed his brow. _Is she fucking with him?_

The man took two steps inside, and House marveled at how he had changed... and how much he hadn't. Brian Rost was a handsome man, aesthetically speaking, but his charm lacked sincerity and his personality lacked heart; that was still the same.

But, looking at the weary, lined face, House was suddenly reminded of the fact that he hadn't seen the man in fifteen years.

So much had changed. The hair that was once jet black was now streaked with gray, but still thick and shiny. Large, blue eyes and finely arched eyebrows were still as elegant as they were when he first met him almost thirty years ago. The lines around his mouth had ruined his charismatic smile, and deep trenches in his pale forehead spoke of years worth of frowning. Unlike himself, however, Brian had accumulated somewhat of a beer gut, although, knowing the man it was a scotch gut… a love of Maker's Mark was one of the few things they had in common.

House watched, entranced, as Brian thought of something to say to his daughter.

"I'm…"

"Oh, I know who you are. It's actually why I'm asking." Her accent became more pronounced, and her speech haughty, and House had no problem believing that she had attended Oxford for the better part of her educational career.

"Sai…"

"If you'll look at the door you just came through, you'll find that it has my full name on it," she said, voice sending shivers down House's spine. "I don't think we're ready for first names yet, never mind nicknames."

A tiny tendril of sympathy began to unfurl in the pit of House's stomach for the poor bastard. Brian simply exhaled, and examined his shoes, face tired, and weary.

"I'm here…" his voiced faded.

"Yes, I was wondering if you'd answer that question," she quipped, tone deceptively light. She leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled under her chin. "Dr. Brian Rost. Superstar of the mental health world. Psychiatrist extraordinaire. _Whisperer to the schizophrenics._" The last part was said with emphasis. Beside him, Wilson inhaled sharply.

"You never told me Brian meant Brian _Rost_!" House shushed him.

"As if it makes a difference." He turned back to the window.

"… one wonders what business a physician of your… _stature_ could possibly have with someone like me."

"I've come to make amends," he said. The smile on Sairah's face was feral.

"You should really deliver a lecture on time management, Dr. Rost," she started, and House could see Brian's flinch at her form of address. "It would inspire us to hear about how you find time to practice medicine, _and_ stand-up." A hollow laugh escaped her clenched jaw. "_Make amends_… good grief. You know that's going to make the rounds at Thursday night cocktails."

"Ouch," Wilson remarked from his side. House agreed.

"You're not making this easy for me," the man replied, and House winced at the sound of cold, malicious laughter that thickened the air.

"That's rich. _I'm not making this easy for you._ Well, I have to say, Dr. Rost, once you've opened the dam, you have to suffer the consequences." She raised an eyebrow. "I can't stop it, now."

"I'm sorry for being the cause of your bitterness."

"It's at least a start, don't you think?" She asked, tone conversational, as she began to tick items off on her fingers. "That's bitterness accounted for. There's still grief, anger, frustration, depression, and _a lifetime's_ worth of emotions and feelings that I'm going to have to use adjectives and verbs to describe." She leaned forward, and House got the feeling that she was just getting started. "Then again, maybe not… abandonment _is_ a noun, isn't it?"

It was as if the air in the room was suddenly gone, and House had to struggle to breathe. He suspected his old friend suffered from the same problem.

"I tried my best…" Brian almost _wheezed_, "to be a good father, a good hus…"

"People," she started, and the low whistle from his side confirmed that the fury in her voice wasn't imaginary, "who try their _best_, do not abandon their family. They make an effort. They are _there _for the people who need them. _They_ _do not_ move a perfectly well-adjusted family to _England…"_

"But…"

"Oh, no, Dr. Rost. I don't blame you; you had to do what you had to do, right?" She braced her hands on her desk and leaned forward. "It would have only been a _distraction_, wouldn't it, if you had _concerned yourself_ with the fact that your wife was exhibiting the same symptoms you dedicated your career to studying?" She tutted, and it was as if the wheels had stopped turning in House's head. He listened, numb, and let the voice filter through his brain unprocessed. "No, that wouldn't have done. Not at all. You had your patients, you had your hospital, you had your trials, and it took a lot of hard work to get to where you are, I'll give you that. You had more than enough important things to attend to."

"I asked you to come back with me…"

"_You asked me to abandon my mother!"_ She almost spat the words. "You asked me to leave a frightened, vulnerable, _sick_ woman _alone!_ Tell me, Dr. Rost, were you that oblivious to your home life, or did you just decide that it wasn't worth your time? It wasn't even worth your time to get her committed, was it?"

House's brows furrowed in confusion. The wheels had definitely resumed turning, although he couldn't even consider the myriad of implications made in that monologue; he was more preoccupied with the fact that the giant, gaping, hole in his knowledge of his goddaughter's life was about to be filled.

"You don't understand…" he began, and he looked like he regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

"Oh, but I do. I did, much before the first time. But I notice everything, it comes with being a child prodigy…"

She was interrupted by a soft, "So you did go to medical school." Sairah looked like she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time and viscous confusion swirled thick in House's gut. _He wasn't…?_

"The fact that the name on the door precedes the letters M and D, and the fact that you are standing in a hospital should have clued you in."

"I'm…"

"What you are, Dr. Rost, is a _spectacular_ coward. A spineless, self-centered, _coward._ You lost any and all… forget love… respect, admiration, or affection that I had for you the morning after the first time, when you patted my head, and told me to _be good for Mommy_ before leaving me alone."

She seemed to gain momentum.

"Never mind her, for a second. _What about me?_ What about the fact that you knowingly, _willingly_, put my _life in danger?_ What about the negligence? What about the fact that I spent the last fifteen years _alone?"_ The last word was almost whispered.

Brian's face twisted.

"I'm so sorry." House watched, absorbed, as she stood up, straightened to her full height, took a deep breath, and tipped her head up.

"If you're coming here seeking forgiveness, _absolution_, then you're going to be disappointed. I owe you nothing."

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It was not as if a huge weight had been lifted; on the contrary… her ears were buzzing, and her furiously palpitating heart was threatening to jump out of her chest and ruin her façade of composure. Just as she uttered those words, she watched his face twist with what she'd like to think was remorse. She wasn't happy. She had dreams and nightmares about coming face to face with him, but it didn't give her any pleasure to say all that she said. All that she felt at that moment was an all-consuming, black, sadness at the sight of him. At the state of their relationship.

Sairah exhaled slowly, face carefully blank, as she heard the approaching _clack, clack, clack_ of what was undoubtedly the sound her boss's shoes made against the linoleum floor.

Dr. Cuddy swooped in, and slightly taken aback, smiled at her visitor.

"There you are, Brian, I thought I lost you. Dr. Khan, I didn't know you knew Dr. Rost;" she told her, "he's here to tour the university and discuss an adjunct position in the medical school."

Sairah took a deep breath.

"No, we don't know each other terribly well." Her stomach contracted with a twinge of regret at the expression on his face, but was soon replaced with a renewed anger.

"Not as well as one should know the man whose name adorns one's birth certificate." Her voice was flat, and she took twisted pleasure in timing how long her boss took to figure it out.

"Oh," she breathed. "I'll just wait outside, then." Sairah looked at her father, and smiled. It was her professional smile, one that pregnant women and small infants were routinely graced with.

"That's not necessary, Dr. Cuddy," she intoned. "I think we're done here." Cuddy looked shocked, but went to wait outside anyway.

"I deserved that," Brian suddenly spoke. "I deserved all of it, and I deserve even more. I know that." His gaze suddenly shifted from his shoes to his only child's face. "You think I'm a cold-hearted bastard, and I probably am. But no matter what happened, what you think, what I did, what your last name is, I will always be your father, and I will always love you."

He started walking out, but he stopped and turned around.

"You're wrong, you know. I didn't come here for forgiveness. I came here to tour the university. I heard your name in the hallway, and all I could think about was how long it had been, and how much I missed my daughter…" She cut him off again.

"Those are just words, do you realize? Just, meaningless words. You didn't care enough to come to the hospital to see your daughter born. You weren't there for most of my life, anyway. _You love me._" She scoffed quietly. "That doesn't accomplish anything. It didn't do me any good when I was a scared twelve-year-old with an unpredictable mother. That year and a half you stayed with us in London didn't do me any good… and _stayed_ is a nice way of putting it… fifteen minutes of face time a day didn't do me any good. It didn't do me any good when I was alone in a hostel for the better part of my life." She walked around the desk. "It still doesn't do me any good," she said, words barely a whisper.

"And after everything, she was still the better parent. There were still some good times," she finished, expression haunted.

"I should go," Brain announced with wide eyes, looking as if somebody had startled him. She found herself nodding.

He turned around to leave, and stopped when she started to speak again.

"I didn't do it out of spite."

He faced her, and she continued.

"I didn't do it out of spite. I gave up ever finding Greg again, and Lucknow was the first place that offered me any real comfort. Dadajan offered to pay for Oxford, to pay the…" she faltered. "To pay the other bills, and he was extraordinarily kind, considering that I was the offspring of the daughter he disowned." She swallowed heavily. "The summer after you left, I found his number in Mum's old notebook and called him. We were on a plane within a week. I insisted that I stay in London… that _we_ stay in London. I still missed the States, but I don't think I could have withstood going back like that. I saw myself in them. I saw myself as a Khan. I didn't see myself as your daughter. And I wanted to separate myself from you, both professionally and personally." She laughed mirthlessly. "Okay, maybe it was out of spite, a bit. But I felt like a Khan. After two years in England, it was the first time I felt I belonged to something. To _someone_. Dr. Sairah Rost." She looked down. "It sounded strange."

"Good bye, Sairah." And with those words, her father slowly walked out of her office.

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Cameron's mind was spinning. She barely noticed her young friend turning around and catching a glimpse of them through her window, but she did, and she elbowed House's side. Sairah looked like she could have been knocked over with a feather, and Cameron winced in sympathy, as she gripped the walls and made her way into the now occupied conference room.

Despite the obvious tension, Cameron cracked a smile when Wilson cautiously approached Sai, as if half-expecting her to collapse, but afraid to get too close if she wasn't. Cameron privately thought it wise, and almost automatically, turned her head to look towards her right.

House said nothing.

Sairah didn't look angry anymore. She just looked… _tired_. Sai opened her eyes and looked straight at House.

House stared back, and Cameron was suddenly reminded of the day Sairah Khan announced her presence in their lives.

Suddenly, something shifted in Sairah's eyes, and the blood drained from her previously flushed face. Her jaw dropped.

"You knew," she breathed.

House stiffened behind Cameron, still silent.

"You must have at least suspected." Gaining momentum, she let go of the wall and took two steps forward, swaying unsteadily.

"You suspected that something was wrong, didn't you. That's why you started sleeping on the sofa that summer. _You knew!"_ Her voice rose.

"You knew, and you didn't think it was necessary to stop it? You could have taken me in, you could have saved me…" She faltered. "Why?"

House's words were equally quiet.

"It wasn't my place."

It was as if Sairah was punched in the gut. Her face crumpled, and the blood rushed back into her face.

"It wasn't your place," she dully repeated. Her lifeless voice made Cameron want to cringe. Nobody said anything for a long, uncomfortable moment.

The younger woman snapped out of her trance.

"No. No, no. Of course. You're right." Wilson gaped, Thirteen's jaw dropped, and House stared on, impassive. Cameron wasn't that surprised. "You're right," she repeated, tears glimmering in her rich brown eyes, and Cameron held her breath. "I was, am just your friend's daughter. We're not even related…why would you even…?"

She took a deep breath, and straightened to her full height, which Cameron suspected, was something of a defense mechanism.

"I'll just get out of your hair, then." The resigned finality in her voice made Cameron's heart ache for the pair of them, and she watched, unable to move, as her friend, still unsteady, disappeared down the hall.

House stood stock still behind her. Wilson was trying to get him to go back to his office, or better yet, go home, and the soft pleas were falling on deaf ears, as House suddenly grabbed his cane from where it hung from the molding and proceeded, in a worryingly slow pace, in the opposite direction. Wilson, glancing at Cameron, hurried after him. Thirteen just shook her head and took off in the same direction that Sairah did.

Cameron stayed in the dark conference room, and it was a good five minutes before she did anything. Seating herself on one of the dark green chairs, she pulled out her cell phone.

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